Please click on the link below to hear several BBC
Radio Derby interviews at Belper Golden Rainbows
on October 17th. There is also a separate live
interview with PC Fred Bray on October 18th and a
live interview with Narvel Annable on October
21st.

Hello Readers,

Our Belper Golden Rainbows LGBT group has, over
the last 14 months, increased in its popularity
and strength - but the extraordinary development
of the October 17th meeting took us all by
surprise!

Our sessions are in two parts. The walking
group meets in the Cottage Project car park at
11am. As ever, PC Fred Bray was there with
regular attendee John and two new faces, civilian
volunteers assisting the police, Georgia and Beth.
A cool sunny morning, the five of us enjoyed a
brisk walk to the Belper River Gardens where I
delivered my usual commentary with a LGBT theme.

The surprise came when we returned at 1pm to
discover a bumper crop of visitors including six
newcomers. Regulars Ken, Chris and my
husband Terry, armed with the usual free
sandwiches and cake, had already arrived together
with our guest speaker. He is the Derbyshire
LGBT + new Project Officer Hate Crime Advocate -
John Yates-Harold. We were twelve. One
more holding a microphone made up our best turn
out ever.

Sally, a BBC Radio Derby producer, had come to
find out more about the well known Hate Crime
Monitoring Police Officer, Fred Bray
whose lively personality always adds zest to each
event as he offers practical professional advice
to those of us who are in need. Sally
interviewed Fred as well as the recruited
volunteers.

She also interviewed Terry and me regarding our
work at Belper Golden Rainbows and focused on a
particularly nasty homophobic incident we recently
suffered in Matlock.

In addition, I was pleased to be invited for a
live interview with Dean Pepall at the
BBC Radio Derby Studios on Sunday morning, October
21st.

Narvel Annable

Thanks to Allan Morton,
Information Sheets 164 and 165 have now been uploaded to
DropBox. The links are here:

For this technical wizardry, I give full credit to my
friend and fellow writer Allan who, for the last ten
years, has generously given his time and effort to make my
work more effective - indeed possible.

October 7th. 2018 Worksop Guardian

Dear Editor,

The gathering on Saturday, September 29th at Community
House on Wood Street in Mansfield was billed as an LGBTQ+
Health & Wellbeing Free Event. For us, the
Derbyshire LGBT+ Belper Golden Rainbows group, it will be
affectionately remembered as the first ever Mansfield
Pride.

With our two tables and two chairs we, Fred, Terry and
Narvel, were certainly proud and privileged to have been
given the opportunity to be one of several stalls, making
connections, browsing other stands, chatting with local
health organisations who offer support and advice.

Mansfield man, Fred Bray, a specialist Police Officer in
hate crime issues, has been a tower of strength in our
Belper group. In the Community House he quickly
assembled a selection of my autobiographic novels on the
table. He decorated the walls with hundreds of
campaigning letters to the press - items I’ve had printed
over the last 20 years.

My husband, Terry Durand, has been at my side for the last
42 years - an invaluable and constant help in decades of
activism.

The morning and afternoon was well attended by members of
the public continually in conversation with Terry, Fred
and I
providing an opportunity to ask questions, exchange views,
make comment and spark discussion on a variety of gay
issues and concerns.

Among the guest speakers are two who will always be
remembered.

‘You could hear a pin drop while they spoke. The
emotion in the room spilled into conversation afterwards,’
said Yvonne one of the organisers.

I had an opportunity to share with Manny details of my
personal horrors in 1957 C of E, Mundy Street Boys School
in Heanor. It was a culture of cruelty controlled by
a sadistic schoolmaster who inflicted emotional injuries
which still hurt me today. In 2014, I was diagnosed
with PTSD.

Sam Hope, who runs a counselling and training consultancy,
gave an excellent speech on gender diversity. In a
private exchange, Sam took time and trouble explaining to
me the significance of the T in LGBT. In a
few words, light was shed on darkness. Thank you,
Sam.

It was a pleasant surprise to be sitting in front of two
extraordinary leading lights from Worksop - Helen Azar and
Claire Bradley head LGBT + Service Nottinghamshire.

Worksop Out on Wednesday [WOW] volunteers at Centre Place
has been supporting LGBT people, brave and honest
youngsters, who have suffered appalling problems coming to
terms with their sexuality over the last ten years.

Lesley Watkins and Yvonne Hudson can be proud of their
first Mansfield Pride. They have helped rescue us
from the anxiety and shame inflicted by a cruel and
ignorant heterosexual majority. They also remind us
that human unhappiness has effects far beyond the
individual. It reaches out to touch the lives of
everyone.

As a gay man, no stranger to homophobia, I am deeply
grateful for their efforts.

Narvel Annable

July 21st 2018

Belper News

Dear Editor,

Before the formal meeting of Belper Golden Rainbows on
July18th,
a few of us met in the Cottage Project car park at 11.00
to enjoy a short uphill walk under a sunny sky to visit
the 18th century Belper Unitarian Chapel tucked away on
Field Row off Green Lane. Unitarians sharing diverse
opinion, free of dogmatic assertion have a positive
attitude to LGBT issues.

On this, our third morning outing, we were warmly welcomed
and shown around by Frances St Lawrence, an enthusiastic
guide who gave us a comprehensive tour. We climbed
the outdoor cantilevered stairway up to a balcony with an
excellent view over Belper and the river valley beyond.
Just below us, the neat floral graveyard, immaculately
maintained and festooned with a riot of summer colour.

This balcony leads us into the top gallery. Here was
a view of steeply raked, beautifully polished original box
pews and commemorative plaques.

By complete contrast we descended below - deep below.
Frances kindly lit numerous candles to enable us to
explore the cool crypt beneath the chapel where Strutt
family members are interred under arched catacombs.
An intriguing and somewhat creepy adventure!

We were all grateful to Frances for taking time and
trouble to give us such an interesting morning.

Narvel Annable

Hello Readers,

Above is a photo of our group in front of
Belper Cottage Project just before we went on our first
Belper walk. From left to right - PC Fred Bray, Terry
Durand, Ken Hopkins and Narvel Annable.Other regular attendees
of Belper Golden Rainbows did not wish to be photographed.

There will be another
Belper walk on June 20th when we meet at 11.15 in the
Belper Cottage Project car park for those who are
interested.If you have any
questions or concerns about this walk, we hope, the second
of many more, please phone me - 01 773 834483.

We’ll return to the
cottage at 1pm for the formal Derbyshire LGBT + session
when our guest speaker, the editor of QB Magazine, David
Edgley will speak on the subject of Older LGBT people in
‘care’ homes.His presentations have been
acclaimed for the entertaining, amusing and informative
style we have come to enjoy in the pages of QB
over the last 102 editions.He is also a leading
light at Nottinghamshire Rainbow Heritage - www.nottsrainbowheritage.org.ukMembers of that team
have worked hard many years improving the lives of people
who share same sex attraction.David will
arrive with equipment to illustrate his talk.A short film will be
shown which should elicit questions, comment and
discussion.

The information below may also useful.

Warm wishes,

Narvel

Derbyshire LGBT + launched
‘Golden Rainbows’ last September.It is a social support
group for people who identify as gay.We meet on the third
Wednesday of each month between 1 and 3pm at The Cottage
Project, 16 Chapel Street [the A6] in Belper just opposite
the bus station.A free car park is
available behind the cottage.Free admission and free refreshments
are available at all meetings.

A Derbyshire LGBT +
research paper highlighted the immense isolation and
loneliness faced by older members of the gay community in
rural Derbyshire.CEO Ian Robson and his
team based at 7 Bramble Street in Derby have conceived and
promoted this much needed initiative in the Belper area.The aim is to reduce
loneliness, potentially a killer for older people who
share same-sex attraction.

Belper
Golden Rainbows last walk is on the Derbyshire
constabulary website:

In
our meeting of April 18th 2018,
our guest speaker and regular attendee,
PC Fred Bray
once again offered practical professional advice on the
subject of
HATE CRIME.
We
all enjoyed the usual free food and hot drinks.

Since our last meeting, sadly, I’ve been informed of the
passing of an old friend known better to readers of
Scruffy Chicken
as David
Bond
the number two of the 1960s Derby Elite of nodding heads
led by Claud Hoadley.

At 90+, David’s long life was
overshadowed by two devastating homophobic attacks in his
younger days which left him a profoundly private and
frightened man who kept himself very much to himself.
Before introducing Fred, in a brief eulogy, I outlined
David’s two traumas one of which nearly cost him his life.

To support the eulogy, I
distributed around the group copies of old Sheets 74 and
75 which can be accessed by clicking on these links -

Sheet 74 gives a graphic and
somewhat disturbing description of secretive homosexual
life in 1965 in which David Bond [1927-2018] and Barrister
Brian Smedley [1934-2007] were regular friends meeting at
our gentleman’s club, the Derby Turkish Baths. Brian
was a prestigious dinner guest, a desirable social catch,
often turning up at David’s home and also the home of
leading light and top snob Claud Hoadley.

In
these exclusive gay gatherings of more than half a century
back, there was a good reason for the occasional
appearance of an uneducated scruffy teenager at that
august table such as my roughly-spoken younger self -
hence the title Scruffy
Chicken. I expect
it was a combination of light relief, novelty value and
desirable decoration.

Foreshadowing David Edgley’s
June 20th
talk at Belper Golden Rainbows on the subject of
Older LGBT people in ‘care’ homes; I was shocked to learn
that David Bond went into a local nursing home shortly
after our last communication in early January. He
didn’t tell me. David never revealed his LGBT status
to anybody outside his small select circle of gay friends.

Click on the link below, Sheet 160
to read about Wirksworth’s secret Puzzle Gardens, a nasty
homophobic incident in a Matlock Cafe and offensive
homophobic football chanting. By contrast, join me
with Allan Morton in a magical walk through Ambergate’s
enchanted Shining Cliff Woods - in an extract from Sea Change.

On February 21st,
2018, at Belper Golden Rainbows,PC ANDY SUDBURY will be the guest speaker on the
subject of hate crime. Several of my readers have
booked for this event.

DAN WEBBER, the Events
Coordinator of Furthest From The Sea Music Comedy and Arts
and Director of the ‘Looking Back, Looking Forward’
project has agreed to be our guest speaker for
March 21st. to talk about his excellent work.

PAUL
HUNT - Chief Features Writer - Shout!
Magazine and leading LGBT light in Bradford has kindly
agreed to make a 140 mile round trip to be the guest
speaker in Belper on April 18th.

During the years from 2007 to
2012, I made annual appearances at Bradford, Leeds and
Huddersfield to be a part of pride events promoting the
gay cause and my novels. Paul will talk about his
work in LGBT activism.

GREG PICKUP was our guest speaker
on October 18th. He continues in his LGBT History
research and oral history interviews and is opening a new
LGBT Exhibition at Chesterfield Museum and Art Gallery at
St Mary’s Gate S41 7TD on Saturday, February 3rd.
from 2 to 4pm. It sounds really exciting. We
look forward to this interesting event now firmly in my
diary.

We hope to see you next
Wednesday.

Warm wishes.

Derbyshire LGBT + launched
‘Golden Rainbows’ a new social support group for people
who identify as gay. We meet on the third Wednesday
of each month between 1 and 3pm at The Cottage Project,
16
Chapel Street
[the A6] in Belper just opposite the bus station.

A free car park is available
behind the cottage. Free admission and free
refreshments are available at all meetings.

The aim of our group is to reduce loneliness, potentially
a killer for older people who share same-sex attraction.

I’m pleased to report a gradual increase in numbers at all
meetings. When David Edgley was the guest speaker
during our last meeting on November 15th, eight people
attended.

Accordingly, Derbyshire LGBT + are improving the lives of
senior gays who should not be marginalized or restricted
to a ghetto of lonely segregation. For further
information - phone 01 332 207704.

In the New Year, fellow writer and good friend Allan
Morton will film my Detroit Riots presentation at
Golden Rainbows on
January 17th.
This item, to be posted on twitter and Facebook, will be
an added promotion for the monthly Belper Cottage Project
initiative. Allan will reassure the group that
nobody except the guest speaker will appear on camera.

Terry and I hope you join us
next Wednesday.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Hello Readers,

The link below will take you to a short BBC Radio
broadcast from November 1960.

I have nostalgic memories of autumn 1960 when, at the age
of 15, I attended a Pre-Apprentice course at the ultra
modern Ilkeston College of Further Education on Field
Lane. The very concept of ‘Further Education’ was
new. Alas, this 1950s vision of a bright future -
has now been demolished!

A reference to Lady Chatterley’s Lover immediately
flagged up Wednesday, November 16th 1960 when,
at lunch time, I paid my 3/6 [17p] to buy one of the
200,000 copies printed after a 30 year ban of that
controversial book. It was famously vilified by
out-of-touch prosecutor, Mr Mervyn Griffith-Jones who said
–

‘Is this a book you would wish your wife or servant to
read?’

In our humble tiny terraced cottage opposite Stanley
Common Miner’s Welfare, the nearest we had to a servant
was Aunty Brenda. She came to ‘muck us out’ once a
week and would certainly have been disgusted by the
‘goings on’ between Lord Chatterley’s roughly-spoken
gamekeeper and Her lascivious Ladyship.

As a testosterone charged, deeply closeted 15-year-old
guilt-ridden homosexual, I was entranced with the page
everybody was talking about. It was a conversation between
gamekeeper and gamekeeper’s fully-inflated manhood – John
Thomas - straining at the bit for access to Lady Jane’s
womanhood.

‘Arrr, John Thomas! Rock ‘ard, an lookin’ up at
me! A know what thee wants – c***! That’s what
thee wants! C***! C***! An that’s what
thee’s goin’ to get.’

Boasting possession of the infamous book, I memorised this
lewd exchange between man and manhood. In the role
of randy gamekeeper, using the voice and mannerisms of
Long John Silver, Narvel entertained his fellow students
at the Ilkeston College in the style of his Heanor Howitt
impressions earlier in the year.

With relish and access to the caretaker's yard brush for a
crutch, I mimicked Tony Hancock, impersonating Robert
Newton's interpretation of Robert Louis Stevenson's
colourful character - Long John Silver, from his 1881 book
- Treasure Island.

"Aarr, Jim lad!"
and the occasional "Avast there!"

This nautical romp consisted of hopping around the
playground with a limp neck and imaginary squawking parrot
on ye shoulder screeching 'Pieces of Eight!’
It took off, and soon there were several 'Silvers'
capering around Howitt Secondary Modern School
playground.

I savoured his new found influence but had to find new
material when the novelty waned.

"REPENT!! Ye lusting sinners! Hear me!
Ye are DOOMED!!"
had little impact, miserably falling short of the desired
effect, especially when cock of the school Rocky Martin
shouted -

"Shut it!"

"Nay, Brethren, give heed, I have seen the light."

"Y'll see my fist in a minute."

Alas, my comic impressions didn’t take off in Ilkeston in
quite the same way as in Heanor, but some sexy boys were
suitably intrigued by that erotic presentation.

You might well ask, how could I possibly know what
happened on Wednesday, November 16th1960?
The memory is clearly fixed because November 16th
1960 is also the day Gilbert Harding died at the age of
53.

Who? Fifty-seven years ago, this irascible
broadcaster, always on our TV sets, dubbed ‘the rudest man
in Britain’ was FAMOUS. He was so famous; his
name did not appear under his likeness at Madam Tussauds.
The plaque simply said, ‘The most famous man in Britain’.

Only a few people knew Mr Harding was gay. I never
met him, but - as you will learn if you ever read Sea
Change - in 1958 at the tender age of twelve, having
been abducted into a secret circle of paedophiles, I was
one of the few – who knew.

Mingling with 'rough trade', I heard talk about a gay
criminal, 'a swinger' with an appalling reputation for
seediness, shotguns and torture. Ronnie Kray took
'what he wanted'. He selected boys with 'long lashes
with a melting look around the eyes'. They were
plied with drink, shown off at the Society Club in Jermyn
Street and sometimes taken to Kray's luxury flat in
Walthamstow where show business celebrity friends were
entertained.

Rough-and-ready Cockney lads boasted of their connections,
their sexual experience within the mobster underworld and
certain high profile figures of the Establishment.
One extremely desirable thug claimed intimate carnal
knowledge of Gilbert Harding and Lord Boothby.

Needless to say, I resisted boasting these big names to
the Pre-Apprentice Ilkeston boys or, for that matter, any
Heanor boys late of Howitt Secondary School.

Narvel Annable

Hello Readers,

The Editor of Nottingham’s excellent Queer Bulletin,
David Edgley, has kindly agreed to be the guest speaker at
Belper next
Wednesday, November 15th - 1 to 3pm.

I often refer to him as Mr Nottingham. His
presentations have been acclaimed for the entertaining,
amusing and informative style we have come to enjoy in the
pages of QB over the last 99 editions. He is
also a leading light at Nottinghamshire Rainbow Heritage -
www.nottsrainbowheritage.org.uk
Members of that team have worked hard many years improving
the lives of people who share same sex attraction.

Next Wednesday, David will arrive with equipment to
illustrate his talk on the subject of LGBT issues and its
history which should elicit questions, comment and
discussion.

Free admission and complimentary refreshments of
sandwiches, cakes & tea or coffee will be served to
everyone, for this and all meetings at Belper Golden
Rainbows who meet on the third Wednesday of each month
between 1 and
3pm
at The Cottage Project,
16 Chapel Street
[the A6] in Belper just opposite the bus station.

David will be helping us to celebrate our third meeting of
this new social support group for people who identify as
Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual or Transgender.

A Derbyshire LGBT research paper highlighted the immense
isolation and loneliness faced by older members of the gay
community in rural Derbyshire. The aim of our group
is to reduce loneliness, potentially a killer for older
people who share same-sex attraction.

Senior gays should not be marginalized or restricted to a
ghetto of lonely segregation. For further
information - phone 01 332 207704.

Warm wishes

Narvel

Hello Readers,

The inaugural meeting of Golden Rainbows, the new Belper
LGBT support group on September 20th, uncovered a painful
homophobic incident in a local restaurant which wounded
with emotional damage. The victim benefited from
professional advice offered by the group leader. It
should be remembered that some gay people are always going
to be a tempting target for cruel louts looking for fun.

In my letter to the Derby Telegraph printed on
September 26th, I described this appalling event which I
gather comes under the heading of a hate crime or
incident.
Regarding the distinction between a hate incident and a
hate crime, like many others, I am still not entirely
clear about the difference between the two.
Accordingly, I applaud the meeting below which will take
place this Thursday.

For further details ring 01332 20 77 04. Terry and I
will certainly be there.

This Derbyshire experience has triggered outrage on my
Facebook page - not least from Tony Fenwick MBE the CEO of
Schools OUT UK/LGBT History Month.

Tony told me about a young man who had a glass smashed
into his face for holding hands with his boyfriend in an
unprovoked homophobic attack at a Wetherspoon pub.
Click on the link for further details.

Yes, I know we should come forward and alert the
authorities, but there are myriad human complexities and
fears which can block contact with the police.
Unfortunately, living in a relatively small town, our
victim was fearful that he might encounter the culprits
sometime on the street. He was unwilling to take the
matter further even though the group leader offered to
accompany him to the police station. For
corroboration, it has been suggested that the restaurant
might still have CCTV recording of the incident which, I
gather, is now about a month ago.

I will continue to urge our victim to report this matter
to the police.

Regarding Belper’s Golden Rainbows, on a more cheerful
note, I proposed David Edgley of Nottinghamshire's Rainbow
Heritage as the guest speaker on November 22nd. He
has kindly accepted this invitation.

I think Greg Pickup will give a talk on October 18th.
I hope so.

I was asked to give a talk and will be happy to entertain
the Belper Group on January 17th 2018. In addition,
I suggested doing a ‘Connor style’ gay themed Belper walk
sometime in the spring or summer.

We are planning to enjoy a Christmas meal on December
20th.

You can be sure that I’ll do all I can to publicise and
champion this Belper initiative, hopefully increasing the
numbers in future meetings.

Fellow writer and good friend Allan Morton has been
promoting me over the last five years. By extension,
he has also been supporting and boosting Derbyshire LGBT
in the same way. Naturally, I was especially pleased
to see him attend our inaugural meeting. He has
posted several different items advertising Golden Rainbows
on Facebook and Twitter in the run-up to and actually on
the day of ember 20th. See my Facebook page.

A major film is being made in the US about the Detroit
riots 50 years ago. I often think about Laurent. He
was the African American boy I loved. I wonder if
he’s still alive?

To see the film trailer, click on one of the links below.
The first is my Facebook page and the second is twitter.

From 1963 to 1976, I lived in Detroit visiting the UK
annually for as many weeks as funds would stretch. I
had several jobs but was most content as a messenger at a
Detroit bank located downtown. The pay was poor but
duties undemanding and totally stress free.

Each morning at 8.30, I stood on the sidewalk in front of
the impressive Palladian frontage of the bank with its
Greek columns and capitals asserting the confidence of
American capitalism. It was my daily duty to meet
the President of the Detroit Bank. As the massive
Lincoln Continental gracefully glided to a halt before the
mighty edifice of finance, a regular exchange was like a
mantra -

‘Good morning, Sir.’ ‘Morning,’ came a grunt from the
great man. It sounded more like a reprimand than a
greeting. ‘Tell ‘em to wash it.’

It was the same every day. The six-foot-plus
President eased himself out of the driving seat set for a
tall man, quickly replaced by a humble five-foot-nine
messenger who would not dare to adjust the power seating
position. With difficulty, I drove the stately
beast. It was dangerous deeply reclined with a
restricted view together with inadequate control of a
large vehicle. In these precarious circumstances,
the Lincoln slowly moved to the corner, right and right
again and first left into a narrow street dwarfed by two
skyscrapers. A little way down on the right was the
entrance to an expensive downtown multi-storey park used
by executives. A young black guy was waiting to take
the car to its usual reserved location.

‘Mr X would like his car washed,’ said the driver.

‘Yes,’ hissed the scowling youth somewhat aggressively.

This ungracious response to a polite request irked me.
The unwarranted attitude had been endured for several days
when I finally decided to challenge the attendant.
His rudeness was no mystery. An overnight sleep
stealing low of unbearable humidity had not dipped under
70 degrees. Worst was to follow! Another
miserable scorcher in the 90s was fast approaching this
hazy polluted oven of concrete and cement. Even
worst still, the atmosphere was thick with ethnic hatred.
These were the 1960s when Detroit was gripped by racial
turmoil eventually leading to an explosion of burning
riots which left city blocks gutted resembling a war zone.
Notwithstanding, the humble messenger attempted a
remonstration with the African American along the lines of
their shared lowly circumstances.

‘Look!’ I implored, ‘I’m no different to you! I’m
not pretending that I’m better than you. We’re about
the same age and are probably paid the same. When I
ask you to wash this car, I’m just following orders.
There is no need to be so nasty to me!’

The black boy seemed to be startled by this outburst when
the drama was interrupted by an older black man.

‘Hey! Hold on there! What’s this all about?’

The man turned out to be the boy’s boss. I
reiterated my main points and tried to explain that I was
not prejudiced against the attendant. In so doing,
the two Americans were suddenly transfixed by an
unfamiliar foreign accent known in England as broad
Derbyshire.

‘Where on God’s earth is you from?’ asked the boss man.

I launched into another spiel describing a background and
family of Stanley Common mine workers emerging from the
bowels of the earth with faces encrusted with coal dust -
so deeply ingrained - no amount of soap and scrubbing
could ever remove the blackening which marked the lowly
status of a common collier. I added my belief that
at £8 per week, existing in a primitive terrace cottage,
there was precious little difference between a coal miner
and a cotton picking slave. For good measure, I
threw in the fact that while Detroit Negroes drive around
in huge beautiful automobiles, my kin folk get around on
pushbikes.

This tetchy polemic was cut short by the boss striding
forward with an air of menace. He was a big man,
albeit with a benign expression signalling good humour,
indulging a child throwing a tantrum.

‘Well, Englishman, I guess that’s better out than in,’ he
said, now in full smile. The smile faded addressing
his subordinate, ‘Laurent! It’s your job to be nice
to our customers. We don’t sneer at them, we help
them. You can start by explaining the pre-sets.’

The boss was referring to the complication of power seat
controls. In past days he had noticed me struggling
to drive the Lincoln. Sullenly, with a touch of
shame, Laurent slipped into the passenger seat and asked
his customer to get back into the car. He was
invited to push a button marked ‘medium’ which immediately
raised and moved the driving seat forward to suit a man of
average size. Both boys beamed at this sudden
demonstration of electronic wizardry and made eye contact
in that intimate space. For two youths looking at
each other, the moment lasted longer than it should have
done. Hostilities had magically evaporated and I was
now free to savour perfect proportions of quintessential
African features. I scanned tempting thick lips, a
wide nose and big beautiful wondrous round eyes. In
return, the black boy was able to examine a Caucasian
countenance so very enticingly close.

Yes we fell in love.

But this was fantasy, all too soon violated by the feared
explosion of city violence. The long hot smouldering
month of July 1967 burst into flames
on Monday
24th. Like thousands of white workers from
segregated suburbs carefully cleansed of Negroes, Narvel
did not dare make the daily 20 mile commute from his home
to downtown Detroit. There were fearful comparisons
of the 1943 race riot in which 38 people were shot dead.
Some commentators spoke of this current incendiary event
as the first spark of a civil war. Since 1964,
dozens of major American cities had already suffered riots
and looting. After several city blocks had been gutted,
beyond the control of regular riot police, Federal
Paratroopers were sent in to restore order. A few
nervous employees of the Detroit Bank started to trickle
back on the following
Monday
and I steeled myself for a return to work on the
Tuesday.

My affair with Laurent did not last long. You must
try to understand the reality of my world.
Most people live in a heterosexual network where
heterosexual friends get introduced to other heterosexual
friends, heterosexual relatives and heterosexual
colleagues. When something bad happens, people swap
news, close ranks, offer help, support, advice,
condolences - heterosexuals get the lot. My family
threw me to the wolves. I was on my own.

In 1960s Detroit we were the despised minority in hiding.
We were known as fags, queers or degenerates. The
race issue simply complicated an already difficult
situation. Had the parking people been all white, I
was still isolated from relatives and others who, in their
view, knew there was something seriously wrong with me.
Not a word was ever spoken, but the tension and shame was
always hanging in the air. There’s an expression,
the elephant in the room. I was that
invisible elephant, an embarrassment never to be
acknowledged. The love that dare not speak its
name was another reference to homosexuality.
Humiliations were endured on a regular basis.

At this time, 50 years on when a major film is being made
in the US about the Detroit riots, I often think about
Laurent the boy I loved and wonder if he’s still alive.

Narvel Annable

Click on above to see
Detroit Riot short trailer

The Guildhall Theatre,
Derby, May 19th

Dan Webber, the Events
Coordinator of Furthest From The Sea Music Comedy and Arts
has selected author and campaigner Narvel Annable for
inclusion with other writers as part of the ‘Looking Back,
Looking Forward’ project.

Narvel
will read an edited extract from his autobiographic novel
Scruffy Chicken entitled 'A Tale of Jasper, The
Belper Crone' on Friday, 19th May at The
Clubrooms at The Guildhall Theatre, Derby. Doors
open at 7pm,
the show starts at 7.30. ADMISSION FREE

In this piece, edited from his
popular YouTube video ‘Queens’, Narvel uses a total of six
voices based on real people he knew.

Jasper
- the hideous old hunched back Belper Crone who spent his
days giving pleasure to others in public lavatories.

Mr Toad
- the pushy pompous ugly lewd lecher, proud of his
impressive manhood, always looking for his next conquest.

Julian
- the effeminate affected artificial ponce who is racked
with religious guilt.

Narvel
- as he was, more a half century back. The onetime
scruffy chicken with his scruffy broad Derbyshire accent.

Allan Morton will film and promote Narvel’s performance on
one of his Allan Morton
Presents
YouTube videos.

Hello Readers,

RIPLEY LIBRARY has an LGBT exhibition similar to the one
at Matlock Records Office which explores the history of
sexuality and gender identity in Derbyshire. Entry
is free until the end of May.

OTHER STORIES examines local trials and tribulations of
LGBT people over the last two centuries. It includes
an important milestone in the battle for gay rights: 50
years since the 1967 Sexual Offences Act which only
partially decriminalised homosexual acts between men over
21.

Imaginative project leader Greg Pickup who has been
awarded £86,000 from the Heritage Lottery Fund has
organized this display.

Good friend Allan Morton visited the library and, as you
see on the photographs, was pleased find two of my novels
in the display.

TRIBUTE TO TOAD

Hello Readers,

If Paul Sharpley had been alive to celebrate his recent
birthday on April 29th - he would be 87 years old.

Who is Paul Sharpley? You know him better as the
notorious Mr Toad, the star of SCRUFFY CHICKEN. For
the three years of writing that book, in declining health,
Paul continued to insist he would never survive to collect
his complimentary copy. Accordingly, in the summer
of 2005, I sent him the following fractious letter,
consistent with the ongoing fretful narrative of our
stormy relationship.

Dear Paul,

As you are determined to die before my autobiographical
novel is published, I send you the following extract in
which I express my affection for you. Yes -
AFFECTION! in spite of the bumpy ride along the rough road
of our 41 years of fractious friendship.

Paul died on January 1st 2006. This was the day upon
which SCRUFFY CHICKEN, the novel he never read, was
published.

EXTRACT FROM SCRUFFY CHICKEN

In the next few weeks Simeon Hogg found Mr Toad to be,
quintessentially, the very essence of old-fashioned
Englishness in its purest form. Toad was as salty
and as vulgar as a seaside postcard. The best times in
Simeon's life would not be sitting in the S & C Coffee Bar
in Uptown Detroit in the company of intolerant chickens.
No. The best times would be spent with his dear old
friend Mr Toad, being tossed and blown about on the North
Sea on board the Bridlington Belle.

Toad was quaint. Toad was funny. Toad was a
bundle of fun. Toad was a barrel of laughs. He
represented an amusing character in caricature - perhaps
one of the last of the type. He did not know it at
the time, but for Simeon Hogg, these precious hilarious
moments were the beginning of a lifelong friendship, nay,
a love affair; a love affair which would last for the
whole of the remaining 20th century and into part of the
21st century.

End of extract.

As a Facebook tribute to Paul Sharpley 1930 - 2006, I’ve
asked Allan Morton to append his excellent imaginative
photographs of Bridlington and Flamborough, as seen above, taken during a
recent holiday.

Paul had known and loved Bridlington since childhood.
In 1965 we ran along the stone pier to where the
Bridlington Belle was about to depart on one of its
regular coastal tours around the chalk cliffs of
Flamborough Head. Like two eager boys we pushed and
shoved our way to the front for the best view, standing on
the tip of the bow. A man with an accordion appeared
on the deck and played popular pre-war seaside songs.
A few fat, common women - raucous ladies with fat
sunburned legs - performed a jolly knees-up, encouraged by
squeals of merriment accompanied by screaming seagulls
swooping from a blinding blue sky.

On the voyage, I fell into a happy reverie leaning over
the prow, watching it crash, splash and cut through the
sparkling blue of the cold North Sea. At my side
stood Paul, silent, also enjoying a rare moment of pure
happiness with his new friend who actually liked him,
genuinely liked him for what he was - warts and all.

FORTY YEARS ON

Hello Readers,

Diverse
organisations and gay support groups have asked me to give
readings from my novels or speak to audiences on the
subject of homophobia. Relating to LGBT issues, over
the years, I’ve received requests to be interviewed in
newspapers, on the radio with occasional appearances on
television.

The latest TV event was an invitation by Channel 4 to be
part of a documentary, Secrets of the Sauna, billed
as an examination of gay relationships. This film,
aired last year, was produced and directed by Michael
Ogden who recently sent me the following email -

Dear Narvel,

I really hope you and
Terry are well. I'm getting in touch because an old
friend of mine is performing in a new Alan Bennett play in
London. He's looking to talk to a gay former
teacher.

It's just for research
for his role. Would you mind if I put him in touch?

He's a very lovely guy.

Mike Ogden

On 18 Mar 2017, I responded -

Hello Mike,

Delighted to hear from you. By all means, put your
friend in touch with me. I’d like to help.

Hope all is well with you and
your good work. I’m still often recognised and asked
about Secrets of the
Sauna.

Mike wrote to Danny Lee Wynter -

Please e-meet Narvel. Narvel
and his husband Terry were wonderfully kind to me when I
was making a documentary about saunas. Narvel
was equally as kind - if not more so - to write to me many
years before when I made a documentary about coming out!

All the very best, I hope it's an interesting experience
for you both,

Michael
Ogden

Danny wrote -

Hello Narvel,

Thank you so much for agreeing to correspond with me.
That's very generous of you!

So, I should fill you in first on why I would like to
probe your experience of being a teacher in a public /
grammar or all boys’ school during the late sixties.

I'm currently rehearsing Alan Bennett's first play
FORTY YEARS ON for the Festival Theatre in Chichester.
The play is set in a public school in the South Downs in
1968, the same year it was written. I am playing
Tempest, a Junior House Master.

We are exploring the fact he is gay, 34 years old,
incredibly bright, though perhaps deeply cynical with high
aspirations and allusions of grandeur.

Once the play is over I’m not sure I can envisage him
sticking around long within the education system. By
the 70's he would have perhaps left the profession
altogether and pegged it to London to work in publishing.

What was your relationship like with the parents and
governors of the school?

No contact at all with governors. Due to my
strictness in the classroom, some parents were supportive
and some much less so. Never any references to
sexuality, but mothers of a few daughters were quite
hostile to my enforced seating plans designed to split up
disruptive friendship groups.

How did you view the Headmasters teaching values, what was
your relationship with him like?

Mr X was a homophobe, but he liked my traditional approach
to teaching. He probably took the view that a man
well past 30 should be married - and was suspicious.
Relations were polite but formal.

When I was a history master at the Valley Comprehensive
School in Worksop, north Nottinghamshire, I taught as I
was taught in the 1950s. I was too strict, too
formal, too unwilling to modernise and reluctant to
embrace progressive trends in state education which
arrived in the 1980s. This ‘Mr Chips’ mindset was a
cloak to conceal the continuing anxiety of leading a
double life. Inside, I was a frightened homosexual
trying to look like a confident heterosexual on the
outside. It had to look like a teacher easily
fitting in with pupils and staff.

For about 16 years, for the most part, Mr Annable
succeeded in dodging disapproval and maintained a mask of
po-faced respectability hiding inside a small bungalow in
the ultra conservative colliery village of Clowne in
north-east Derbyshire. Like most isolated, closeted
gay men, I spoke little of myself and was constantly on
guard. It became a way of life.

From time to time there were alarming incidents at school.
Our staffroom, predominately macho male, was a hotbed of
football fanaticism, strong language and laddish crude
humour.[

One afternoon, a colleague lazily leaned back in his seat
and insouciantly yawned out –

‘Nothing much to do. I suppose we could go out and
beat up a queer.’

Probably disappointed at a lack of response, he repeated
the bait several times over the following weeks.
Others took notice. One of them gave advice -

‘You know, Narvel, you really should make more effort to
socialise. Try to fit in. Come to the pub with
us after school once in a while.’ He lowered his
voice in earnest. ‘Get yourself a girlfriend: talk
about her. Better still, get yourself married.
If the boss [headmaster] thought you were queer, he’d have
you out of here so fast your feet wouldn’t touch the
ground!’

The final two years saw gay hate terminating a teaching
career. Although my private life continued to remain
very private, some pupils began to speculate on Mr
Annable’s sexuality. They turned him into an object
of fun inflicting humiliating hurtful episodes. I
might have survived a few, but there were too many.
A steady torturous drip destroyed my credibility and
confidence. At the edge of a breakdown, a shell of
my former self, there came a point when my position was
untenable. I was unable to discharge professional
duties. These appalling disrespectful attacks were
never taken seriously by senior management. One
culprit was told –

‘That was a silly thing to say.’

On Thursday, April 6th 1995, a colleague
commented on continuing melancholy, my appearance and
exhaustion. She earnestly advised ‘a few days off’.
I walked out of that classroom and never returned.

Which other teachers did you find yourself drawn towards
and why?

Mrs X was a compassionate Head of Special Needs. We
got on very well and nearly 40 years on - we still
exchange Christmas cards and letters. A
compassionate lady, I think she always knew. Nothing
was ever said at school but, after retirement, she has
always cheered me on in campaigning.

I observed most colleagues with mixed feelings. It
was easy to categorize the assorted types. In the
far corner of the main staff room, they were known as The
Old Guard. Like me, after 18 years, they had been
there for as long as anybody could remember. Most of
them were from the Technical Department - politically
reactionary, right wingers doing what they do best,
grumbling and grouching about everything.

Their arch enemies were in the opposite corner, the
English Department, equally odious in a different way.
I called them the far left. They were the
progressives. They tolerated noisy classrooms, kids
chattering and wandering around - not much work done and
reluctant to punish. Sarcastic with an acid wit sums
them up.

English teachers didn’t stay long. They moved on to
better things. Me? Well, historians had their
own smaller staffroom in the 6th Form Block. They
were a mixture of the two extremes. I used to
think I was a good teacher and was comfortable
conversing with the old-fashioned tech types. That
said, they were hostile to queers - as, of course, were
some progressives.

I recall one of the traditionalists letting rip in a
plaintive cry -

‘Of course, I’m a voice in the wilderness, but if you want
my opinion, I wouldn’t touch that scumbag with a
bargepole. I wouldn’t stand for it. The
headmaster should ... ’

What role, if any, did religion play in the life of the
school?

Not a lot. Mr X, in flowing gown, swept on to the
stage every morning and conducted a formal Christian
assembly with hymns and prayers. I was on moderately
good terms with the Head of Religious Instruction who,
almost exclusively, taught Christianity. He did not
approve of my indifference to all religions. I
didn’t dare give him my true opinion about brainwashing,
soul destroying Jehovah's Witnesses or the hated
Leviticus.

And finally (for now, anyway!) which world events, if any,
during the period of the nineteen sixties had a direct and
visceral impact on your school experience?

As a student in the 1960s, no major event could influence
my teaching because I was not a teacher until the 1970s;
however, you might obtain some inspiration from this
experience.

A little boy had a strong impact on my life. I’ll
never forget it. It was around February time,
miserable cold wet dark days. It would be early
1990s. He was only two-years-old. James Bulger
was led away from a Liverpool shopping centre by two
ten-year-olds. We all saw it captured on grainy CCTV
images. It burned into the nation’s conscience.
It also seared into my conscience. Somehow, I
took it very personally. This little toddler, so
trusting, was holding on to the hand of one of the boys.
They walked him two and a half miles through busy streets,
eventually to a quiet canal towpath. They tortured
him ...

They tortured this poor helpless child. They took
pleasure in his anguish, his heartfelt tears and his pain.
We were given to understand that his hopeless cries for
help egged them on. This, the child who had
trusted them, the child who had faith in these boys -
before they murdered him.

There was a moral decline during the few years before I
‘escaped’ from teaching in 1995. In reality, I
suffered a mental breakdown. With Bulger, Britain’s
self-doubt had taken on a horrible shape. How can I
put it? A blighted economy, grim times - felt as if
nobody was in charge. Crime, poverty, boy races in
cars terrorising law abiding people in their own streets -
even in the pit village of Clowne where I lived. I
suffered a plague of screaming motorbikes. Yobs
removing baffles. It was physically painful - like -
anarchy rules. Even the police seemed to give up!

For several days, the sweet little face of James stared
out at us from newspapers and TV stoking up public
outrage. The populous were inflamed. Furious
crowds screamed abuse and banged on the police van which
brought the boys into court.

I feel that a particular heinous killing says something
about the moral state of the nation. It must have
been at about that time, I heard a new word, an ugly
word - underclass. Some MP put it quite well -

“This is a hammer blow against the sleeping conscience of
the nation. There is a growing sense of moral
decline.”

Chaos and a breakdown of discipline within the Valley
Comprehensive School seemed to mirror the national chaos
under the failing discipline of John Major. I was
failing as a teacher and a human being.

Further emails were sent to Danny -

This is an extract from Double Life in which I call
myself Simeon Hogg - Sim-ME-on. The following
actually happened to me. The boys, now men in their
40s, are real.

In nearly two decades, only once did Simeon achieve a
breakthrough and enjoy a friendly, meaningful relationship
with a group of pupils. They were a boisterous bunch
of ruffians with an appalling reputation throughout the
school. Progressive staff referred to the Ronnie,
Bobbie and Freddie mob as ‘challenging behaviour’.
Hard-nosed traditionalists abused them with loutish
language and occasional violence to keep order and impose
discipline. Mr Hogg identified himself with this
‘old guard’ but never condoned corporal punishment.

This gang of three, by popularity and sheer force of
personality, imposed on the rest of the class an influence
which could make life very difficult for a teacher who
took his work seriously. On one occasion, after an
onerous hour, Mr Hogg dismissed the class but detained the
terrible trio. Unwisely perhaps, they were ordered
to remain behind, explain their disruptive attitude and
suffer a reprimand. Simeon had little confidence in
his strategy - but it was worth a try.

Many years on, without success, he tried to recall and
reconstruct this extraordinary conference of four and
locate the exact point when everything changed between the
teacher and his charges. The sea change happened
during a moment when a criticism of Ronnie was interrupted
by an effective heartfelt defence from his number two –
Bobbie. In plain language normally considered
disrespectful to a member of staff, despite limited
articulation, Bobbie managed to paint a picture of his
best friend who was experiencing all the stresses and
chaotic adolescent miseries which could have been a
14-year-old Simeon.

Effectively, the atmosphere of this detention, this
coerced punishment suddenly transformed into a voluntary
and valuable meeting between four equals. It was a
magical moment, a sudden switch from monochrome into
glorious Technicolor where three boys wanted to stay and
further explain their lives to an adult who was now more
counsellor than schoolmaster.

It was a dodgy situation for Mr Hogg! He was hearing
confidential information about his colleagues which was
verging on ‘unprofessional conduct’. He was hearing
distressing details of their home life. His
sympathetic ear encouraged further trust to the point that
his teacher status had morphed into the confidentiality of
the confessional. Now treated like a newly acquired
friend, Simeon was begged to guard the secrets which had
been entrusted to him for safe keeping.

Were these revelations true? Were these boys telling
lies? In the weeks which followed, cautiously and
casually, Simeon cross-referenced the accounts with a few
friendly colleagues and one trusted deputy head who had
access to private files. Although the boys hid
behind a veneer of defiant swagger, their new confidant
concluded that there was indeed a case to answer.
They were victims of an insensitive system all too willing
to exploit youths from a deprived background and give
three dogs a bad name. Bobby said,

‘I can’t help the way I speak, sir. It’s me voice,
it irritates folk. It’s not my fault, sir.
Honest.’

Simeon had always been annoyed by a certain element of
insolence in the utterances delivered by Bobby.
There was a sardonic tone which, at a low level,
challenged authority and continued to chafe.
Notwithstanding, he accepted that the pupil’s lilt of
speech was natural, a part of Bobby’s personality.
It was not intentionally disrespectful.

The new friendship was affirmed, enjoyed by all four but
did not really solve any problems. It reduced the
stress of teaching in that particular class and, by
osmosis, improved Mr Hogg’s standing in the whole that 4th
Year.

So now, somewhere into the start of a new academic year,
Ronnie, Bobbie and Freddie will now be 5th
years. He had not seen them. And that was a
pity. They were worth looking at, especially
Freddie, the cute one. Of the three, he was the
least assertive, not to mention his perfect bottom well
displayed in close fitting trousers.

During this time, discipline and respect for masters in
the school was rapidly deteriorating. Corporal
punishment was still available to the Head and his
Deputies but, to the relief of Simeon, forbidden to other
teachers. A minority of macho ‘old guard’ staff
regularly applied a violent fist to quickly correct any
irritation such as casual insolence. This type of
transgression having reached the ears of senior management
usually resulted in a gentle reprimand and advice along
the lines of - ‘Don’t get me wrong, I know Bobbie and his
scumbags can infuriate, but just go easy. Stand
back. It’s not worth it.’

Detention after school was used with increasing frequency.
But it was a formal detention of one hour from 4 to
5pm. To punish a pupil required the completion of a
detailed Incident Report in triplicate to the Head of
House who would send a letter to the parents.
Overwhelmed with work and stress, most staff already
bogged down by red tape simply could not find the energy
and time to cope with ever mounting bureaucracy.
Some hard cases (like Bobbie) would make sure the letter
never reached his parents anyway; or he might simply
refuse to attend the detention. In the mid 1980s in
Mrs Thatcher’s Britain, to Simeon and many of his
beleaguered colleagues, it just felt like the world was
falling apart.

Some months after that extraordinary impromptu detention,
which magically morphed into a constructive conference of
equals, a history master was whispering with the terrible
trio in the library. Seated in front of written
notes and open books, it was intended to look like a
teacher helping his pupils. Actually, it was Simeon
enjoying a casual chat with Ronnie, Bobby and Freddie when
the subject of school punishments came up.

‘Do you remember that time, big bust up, when I ordered
you lot to stay behind in class?’ asked Simeon.

‘We’ll never forget it!’ responded chief spokesman Ronnie,
slightly abashed. The others displayed a degree of
embarrassment and a short silence forced Freddie into
respectful speech.

‘We’re sorry we upset you, sir. Honest.’

‘Yeah,’ mumbled Bobby.

‘It’s just that ... well ... I wondered ... Well, you, all
three of you, could have just refused to stay behind.
You’re known for refusing detention. Not to mention
disrupting other detentions. You could have simply
walked out of the room. Why didn’t you walk
out?’

They looked at each other for a lead.

‘I expect ...’ started Ronnie.

‘I think it’s because we liked you, sir,’ interrupted
Bobby.

‘Liked me! After I’d pitched into you all!’

‘Well we knew you’d got a temper ... I mean ...’ stumbled
Freddie.

‘Tantrums don’t amount to good discipline or good
teaching, lads. I wish I was a good teacher.
Afraid I’m not.’

‘I’ll tell you what, sir,’ said Ronnie, ‘We were sorry to
have upset you so much. We felt bad about it.
That’s what it was.’

This thoughtful exchange with boys from a rough, chaotic,
dysfunctional troubled background was very affecting to
Simeon. He thought on it deeply. So - all
along, could it have been that the trio unconsciously
engineered this extraordinary reconciliation? For
this stern master, it was a sort of Damascene moment, one
shining flash, the most significant instant in his whole
teaching career. The mask of Mr Chips had slipped
and revealed a useless stressed-out Mr Hogg who had
suddenly stepped back and was staggered by the futility of
his position.

End of extract.

Hello Danny,

The following extract from Double Life may not be
pertinent to your forthcoming role in the play, but I ask
you to read the 850 words. 1975 saw me graduate from
Eastern Michigan University with a Magna Cum Laude degree.
Several hundred students graduated with a new pioneering
major in Black History. To the dismay of my parents
and family, I was one of a very small group of white faces
with that major.

Having been arrested for an act of ‘gross indecency’ in a
public toilet some years before in the 1960s, I was barely
on speaking terms with the family who had all but disowned
me.

Extract from Double Life.

It was the same every day. The six-foot-plus
President of Manufacturers National Bank eased himself out
of the driving seat set for a tall man, quickly replaced
by a humble five-foot-nine messenger who would not dare to
adjust the power seating position. With difficulty,
Simeon drove the stately beast. It was dangerous.
He was deeply reclined with a restricted view together
with inadequate control of a large vehicle. In these
precarious circumstances, the Lincoln slowly moved to the
corner, right and right again and first left into a narrow
street dwarfed by two skyscrapers. A little way down
on the right was the entrance to an expensive downtown
multi-storey park used by executives. A young black
guy was waiting to take the car to its usual reserved
location.

‘Mr de Hammarskjold would like his car washed,’ said the
driver.
‘Yes,’ hissed the scowling youth somewhat aggressively.

This ungracious response to a polite request irked Simeon.
The unwarranted attitude had been endured for several days
when he finally decided to challenge the attendant.
His rudeness was no mystery. An overnight sleep
stealing low of unbearable humidity had not dipped under
70 degrees. Worst was to follow! Another
miserable scorcher in the 90s was fast approaching this
hazy polluted oven of concrete and cement.

Even worst still, the atmosphere was thick with ethnic
hatred. These were the 1960s when Detroit was
gripped by racial turmoil eventually leading to an
explosion of burning riots which left city blocks gutted
resembling a war zone. Notwithstanding, the humble
messenger attempted a remonstration with the African
American along the lines of their shared lowly
circumstances.

‘Look!’ he implored, ‘I’m no different to you! I’m
not pretending that I’m better than you. We’re about
the same age and are probably paid the same. When I
ask you to wash this car, I’m just following orders.
There is no need to be so nasty to me!’

The black boy seemed to be startled by this outburst when
the drama was interrupted by an older black man.

‘Hey! Hold on there! What’s this all about?’

The man turned out to be the boy’s boss. Simeon
reiterated his main points and tried to explain that he
was not prejudiced against the attendant. In so
doing, the two Americans were suddenly transfixed by an
unfamiliar foreign accent known in England as broad
Derbyshire.

‘Where on God’s earth is you from?’ asked the boss man.

Simeon launched into another spiel describing a background
and family of mine workers emerging from the bowels of the
earth with faces encrusted with coal dust - so deeply
ingrained - no amount of soap and scrubbing could ever
remove the blackening which marked the lowly status of a
common collier. He added his belief that at £8 per
week, existing in a primitive terrace cottage, there was
precious little difference between a coal miner and a
cotton picking slave. For good measure, he threw in
the fact that while Detroit Negroes drive around in huge
beautiful automobiles, Simeon’s kin folk get around on
pushbikes.

This tetchy polemic was cut short
by the boss striding forward with an air of menace.
He was a big man, albeit with benign expression signalling
good humour, indulging a child throwing a tantrum.

‘Well, Englishman, I guess that’s better out than in,’ he
said, now in full smile. The smile faded addressing
his subordinate, ‘Laurent! It’s your job to be nice
to our customers. We don’t sneer at them, we help
them. You can start by explaining the pre-sets.’

The boss was referring to the complication of power seat
controls. In past days he had noticed Simeon
struggling to drive the Lincoln. Sullenly, with a
touch of shame, Laurent slipped into the passenger seat
and asked his customer to get back into the car. He
was invited to push a button marked ‘medium’ which
immediately raised and moved the driving seat forward to
suit a man of average size.

Both boys beamed at this sudden demonstration of
electronic wizardry and made eye contact in that intimate
space. For two youths looking at each other, the
moment lasted longer than it should have done.
Hostilities had magically evaporated and Simeon was now
free to savour perfect proportions of quintessential
African features. He scanned tempting thick lips, a
wide nose and big beautiful wondrous round eyes. In
return, the black boy was able to examine a Caucasian
countenance so very enticingly close.

‘Yeah! I guess we done some good here,’ came a
commanding deep voice from big black boss’s face which had
abruptly jutted into the car. It shattered the
tender moment of incipient mutual affection. ‘You
got time for a coffee?’ Simeon declined. He
had already exceeded the time quota for parking The
President’s car. ‘Lunch?’ Yes, he could return
during his lunch hour. He shook hands with the boss
(firm grip) and then accepted Laurent’s gentler warm hand.
Further embarrassing seconds passed before, reluctantly,
it was relinquished; another exciting moment of extended
duration.

For more information about Danny’s play FORTY YEARS ON
- click on the links below.

Dan Webber - actor, writer, producer, director and TV
critic - is the Events Coordinator of a new series of
spoken word presentations taking place throughout the year
in venues across Derby.

The launch will take place at
7pm
on
Friday, February 24th
at Derby Museum. Admission £2 at the door.

I have been asked to address audiences by submitting
several pieces of my work - the first of which will be
heard during the launch. I’m grateful to Dan for the
opportunity to help commemorate 50 years since the partial
decriminalisation of homosexuality in his Looking Back,
Looking Forward presentations.

The recent explosion of sexual allegations against
football trainers take me back to grim days in the 1950s.
My father was ashamed and loathed the son who was not a
‘proper son’ because I hated the Beautiful Game and could
not defend myself with bare knuckles in the playground.
Sound bites spat out in pit talk are forever seared into
my psyche -

‘What sort ‘o lad ‘ave we got! Aye [he] can’t kick a
ball.’

The FA, a group of elderly white men with antiquated
attitudes, has been blocking progress which could have
protected youths from coaches who abuse their trust.
These outdated values came under the heading of CHARACTER
BUILDING which was supposed to turn you into A MAN.
Dad threatened me with National Service which will ‘knock
the softness out of you.’ I missed British
conscription by months and narrowly escaped Vietnam
admitting to being a ‘degenerate’ when located in Detroit
in the 1960s. Dad said -

‘Aye’s no good at oat. Aye can’t knock back a pint
and can’t fancy a lass.’

As we approach 2017, this macho mentality is still alive
and well on football terraces. Neil Bleasley, a gay
football player and fan, has written Football’s Coming
Out. He often hears homophobic abuse.
Unlike racism which has been reduced, vile and disgusting
sexual comments are rarely challenged. The FA is
guilty, taking the view that anti-gay remarks are just
‘banter.’

Neil’s book is realistic, but also optimistic in that slow
progress is being made. KICK OUT HOMOPHOBIA is a
growing movement supported by some of the country’s
biggest football clubs.

Dad [1913-1972] would be surprised to see me reading a
book about football.

Narvel Annable.

‘Unsure what to choose for the
BBC's
#LovetoRead reading
campaign? Well there are plenty of Narvel Annable books
to choose from here!’

Allan Morton - November 2016

Bonfire Night

An
extract from Sea Change

With mixed feelings, Old Simeon looked back on that
somewhat sombre mood around a warming crackling bonfire on
a cold Wednesday evening of November 5th 1958.

In the previous days, strong men Oaf, Blubba, Sambo and
Congo laboured long hours to build the biggest bonfire
ever seen at Fairytale Castle to make Simeon’s last
evening a special occasion. He recalled the circle
of faces glowing in orange and reds illuminated by flames
leaping up licking the dark sky. Completely free
from light pollution, the night vault was normally as
black as ink. There were no fireworks, but all eyes
followed a hypnotic ballet above the great blaze.

The wind
whipped up swirls of burning, glowing debris twisting,
bending and gracefully corkscrewing in a spectacular
dance. The crackling blaze of brilliant yellow
flames was skilfully supported by a foundation of planks
to increase ventilation. Shadowy trees behind
appeared to dance and distort by heat bending effects.
It was lovely and warm. Boys approached as close as
they could, but not too close to the raging inferno.
Alarming cracks and bangs and thuds consumed all under
masses and masses of smoke.

Boys and servants knew their
Simeon would be spirited away into that ebony night –
necessarily under cover of darkness so he could never know
where he had been. Under a cloud of sadness, Edward
asked them all to see it like an ancient ritual. The
offering was Simeon. They must all accept the
necessity of sacrifice for the greater good of the
community.

As the fire died down to a low pile of glowing embers,
Simeon hugged and kissed them all – Charlie, Bongo, Sambo,
Congo, Rabbit, Chunky, Tommy and Tod. Mournfully
they withdrew into Fairytale Castle leaving Simeon with
Barry who handed him his precious Cresta Deluxe rucksack.
Edward passed Blubba a large suitcase containing Simeon’s
extra clothes acquired during his extended holiday.
These were conveyed to the Morris Oxford where Oaf was
already in the driving seat.

The boys were allowed a few minutes of embrace.
Simeon closed his eyes in an effort to suppress a welling
up of tears triggered by a paroxysm of despair and grief.
Salty liquid blurred and smeared the declining embers
which would continue to glow throughout that black night.

Something About Us

Click on above

to watch the documentary.Something
About Us featuring Narvel Annable

I’ve been interviewed by Sheffield based E.D.E.N project
film makers and appeared in Something About Us
first shown at Worksop Savoy Cinema on February 3rd.
Together with several other gay people with a colourful
and troubled past, I was privileged to have been asked to
make this contribution to Gay History Month 2016.

Something about Us
was also be screened at the Nottingham Council House on
February 23rd. This is part of Nottinghamshire’s
Rainbow Heritage annual Celebration and Awards Evening.

The stars of this film were not only in front of the
camera, they were also in the audience making it a
splendid event, full of fun and jubilation. I refer
to the management and volunteers of Centre Place who have
been supporting young lesbian, gay, bisexual and
transgender people since February 2010. This is
evidence of good organisation, dedication and hard work
from an excellent team who provide activities and
counselling for young people coming to terms with their
sexuality.

E.D.E.N stands for Equality and Diversity to Educate and
Nurture. That says it all. This oral history
documentary vividly portrayed the impressive educational
achievements of working class young people who have
created a valuable contribution to the gay cause. We
see boys and girls hailing from a colliery culture
researching in libraries, interviewing professionals and
clerics with critical intelligence and probing questions.
Amongst themselves, they discuss complex issues, all the
time gathering confidence and becoming more articulate
gaining experience. I was impressed.

Parts of the film were heartrending. We heard from
brave youngsters who had suffered appalling experiences.
We walked in their shoes, endured the harsh
realities, the trials and tribulations of LGBT life and
felt their pain. We were reminded that human
unhappiness has effects far beyond the individual.
It reaches out to touch the lives of us all. We also
learned that we can help by supporting WOW (Worksop Out on
Wednesday) located at the Abbey Community Centre.
Having taught history at the Valley Comprehensive School
[1978-1995] - I am well acquainted with prejudice against
those who share same-sex attraction in Worksop and
Bassetlaw. WOW is a charity close to my heart.

Centre Place is one of the most successful groups of its
type. These skilled specialists run an excellent
service. They rescue modern youngsters from the
anxiety and shame inflicted by a cruel and ignorant
heterosexual majority. True, there has been
progress. However, even today many gay pupils get
beaten up and are more likely to commit suicide than their
heterosexual counterparts.

I salute the gutsy girls and brave boys of WOW; they are
the future. We should follow their lead and pull
together to combat homophobia.

Narvel Annable

Hello Readers,

I received a request for a Facebook posting of Sheet 140,
October 2013. See it by clicking
Here

The
reader recalls an exuberant Derby Telegraph letter
where I rejoiced to hear about two Derby County fans
arrested, fined and banned from football for two years.
My reader was distressed to read an excoriating response
from Colin Clark printed days later to which I did not
respond.

Over the years I’ve received communications from people
along the lines of - ‘Hit back! Don’t let them get
away with it’.

It is unlikely Mr Clark will ever see this belated retort;
notwithstanding, here is a message for all unpleasant
bigots.

Letter shows whinger Narvel in his true light.

Mr Clark:

I found your letter responding to - We’ve waited too
long for this splendid justice - October 9th 2013 -
deeply offensive, sarcastic and cruel. I’ve always
taken the view that rants from obnoxious homophobes like
you say more about ill-informed medieval attitudes than
they say about me. Hence my lack of response until
urged to reply by a faithful reader of my books.

Like millions of others, I did not ‘choose’ to be a
homosexual. It is not a ‘lifestyle choice’. To
keep asserting this falsehood demonstrates your profound
ignorance. Homosexuality is part of my DNA,
hardwired into my psyche.

Who would choose to be alienated from family and friends?
Who would choose to suffer childhood trauma and endure
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?

At the end of your letter, you ‘wondered if I ever had to
undergo National Service? I’ve never been instructed to
serve Queen and Country, but I had a close call with Uncle
Sam.

In January 1966, living in Detroit, I was horrified to
receive conscription papers and a command to attend an
army medical. Why should I, an Englishman,
chronically homesick for the green hills and dales of my
native Derbyshire, risk life and limb for the Americans?
Why should I be transported to the other side of the globe
to harm the Vietnamese people who had never harmed me?

The medical was a de-humanising routine in which groups of
naked boys were barked at, ordered from station to station
to be tested, touched, poked and prodded to assess their
fitness to serve Uncle Sam.

You said - ‘I bet Narvel kept himself under wraps during
his army days.’

Wrong again. Quite the contrary. I filled in a
form of many questions including one which asked - 'Do you
have any homosexual tendencies?'

At that time, the United States Army had decided that if
anyone answered 'yes' to that question, it did not want
that person, even if he had made an untrue statement.
The attitude was - 'If, to avoid military service, a man
is prepared to make such a statement about himself, to
falsely claim that he is a moral 'degenerate': we do not
want that man. He is unfit to serve his country.'

I answered the question about my sexuality, honestly.
Accordingly, the initial classification was downgraded
from A1 to 1Y. I was overjoyed.

Narvel Annable

Stonewall

Click
here
to go to Sheet 150 which is a commendation from
Stonewall. Lana’s letter includes a reference to the
Derbyshire LGBT + Orlando memorial event of June 21st when
a man disclosed a staggering catalogue of cruelty. He
suffered emotional trauma since an occurrence during his
schooldays. He was seen kissing another boy. This
incident triggered months of appalling bullying extending
beyond the school gates into his home with gay hating
abuse and bricks through windows. The family was forced
to move to another town where they were unknown. Now in
his 40s, unable to work, deep trauma has adversely
affected this victim’s mental and physical health - a life
ruined by ignorance and bigotry.

Printed in the Derby Telegraph, Sept 9 2016

Homophobic attacks hark back to the 1970s

I’m often told to stop banging on about queers seen as
mad, bad and sad! They say that same sex relations
are no longer a sin, or a crime or a sickness. And
yet, in one weekend, two gay revelations screamed from
newspaper headlines taking us back to the early 1970s.

Keith Vaz and Bishop Nicholas Chamberlain news items are
similar. They are rooted in institutionalised
homophobia and share elements of entrapment.

It appears that male escorts were paid thousands to
uncover the apparent double life of Mr Vaz who might be
gay or bisexual. If so, trapped in a deeply
conservative culture, gay hate certainly kept this longest
serving Asian MP in the closet. Mr Vaz is a
respected popular politician with considerable abilities
as demonstrated in his chairmanship of the Home Affairs
Select Committee. After a cruel sting, he remains
the same man in possession of the same experience and is
still valuable to his country. Was it in the public
interest to denounce Mr Vaz?

Appointing the new Bishop of Grantham has been attacked by
the conservative Anglican group Gafcon as ‘a major error
and a serious cause for concern.’ As with Mr Vaz, a Sunday
newspaper was about to ‘out’ Nicholas Chamberlain as a
homosexual in a long term relationship. It didn’t
happen because, bravely, he went public strangling the
damaging headlines at birth.

Mr Vaz and the Bishop are dignified gentlemen in the best
sense of that word. They have the potential to be
excellent role models for young people who share same-sex
attraction. They have done nothing illegal and are
both successful professionals in a world where gay people
are still seen by bible bigots as sinful, unnatural,
immoral and inferior.

Half a century back, Dr Martin Luther King urged
attractive African American actress Nichell Nichols to
keep her prestigious post as Senior Communications Officer
Lt Uhura on the bridge of the Enterprise in Star Trek.
In that high profile role, untold numbers of little
black girls around the world, for the first time, saw a
black woman in an exalted position instead of endlessly
being portrayed as cleaners and maids.

Although racism and homophobia are still endemic, black
Americans have made progress, gay Asians can contemplate
becoming openly gay Members of Parliament and gay children
can aspire to the rank of an openly gay bishop.

Reporter Dan Hayes interviewed Narvel Annable in his home
and garden resulting in a full page feature with two
photographs printed on page 2 of the Belper News on
March 9th.

I’d like to thank Dan for his splendid efforts re the
Belper News interview featuring Secrets of the
Sauna. He was friendly and keenly interested in
all aspects of my life. It was a lovely day in full
sun. Still a little under the weather recovering
from a heavy cold, our conversation was quite a tonic and
perked me up no end.

Rachael the photographer spent the best part of an hour
under brilliant sunshine taking pictures of me in the
garden and also working on my computer.

On page 2, nearly a full page, their work, sensitive and
positive, was terrific. They did a great job promoting my
books and writing. I’m so grateful. The
photographs are excellent.

Narvel

Breakdown 2014

The following is an
edited biography. It was formed from collaboration
between a counsellor and myself during a series of
interviews which concluded in January 2016.

Hello Readers,

Since the beginning of therapy in February 2015, the
following has become a commentary on the helpful
conversations between me and my counsellor.

The breakdown of October 2014 was in some ways a repeat of
the collapse of confidence suffered in 1995 when I
‘escaped’ from teaching. On that occasion, I was
offered and accepted a course of counselling sessions.
It was OK, but the solution was plain and simple - early
retirement restored me to full health in one year.
The rest you know. A penchant for writing and public
speaking led to campaigning supported by several openly
gay autobiographic novels. It’s been a reasonably
successful and productive two decades, however, it all
seemed to unravel with the publication of Sea Change
in 2014.

Lost Lad, Scruffy Chicken
and Secret Summer closely followed the joys and
sorrows of a life marred by homophobic ignorance.
Such episodes included the exploration of many dark and
dangerous recesses in my memory - but I coped and emerged
unscathed. Sea Change was different.

At Mundy Street Boys School in Heanor, a sadistic
schoolmaster choreographed classroom situations in which I
suffered excruciating humiliations. They wreaked
emotional damage which will follow me to the grave.
To this day, I endure vivid flashbacks, intrusive thoughts
causing distress which still disturbs my sleep. If
not branded into my flesh with a hot iron, the traumas
inflicted by that ruthless Church of England regime are
burnt into my psyche. Cruelty has a cost. I am
now paying the bill for picking at a hard scab which,
until 2014, had afforded protection against the horrors of
late 1957. Recent counselling sessions have
confirmed my belief that, for safety, we repress agonising
memories of childhood torture.

That said, I’m glad I wrote this harrowing account to put
on public record what can happen to an abused boy who is
seen as - different.So what happened to me in October 2014?
Was it a mental breakdown? What exactly is a
mental breakdown once referred to as a nervous breakdown?
Some have said I should see it as a break-through!

To answer, we need go back to August 2014 when I was
invited by Channel 4 to be part of a documentary,
Secrets of the Sauna, billed as an examination of gay
relationships. As of January 2016, this Firecracker
Film directed by Michael Ogden, has already aired in
Australia, New Zealand and Denmark. I’m given to
understand that it will be televised in the USA, Canada
and other countries, but has yet to be seen in the UK.

In this film, Michael’s work explores erotic anonymity and
orgiastic realities, common to many who share same sex
attraction. Despite advice from friends to avoid
this TV initiative, I took the view that it could be a
vehicle to extend my campaigning to a wider audience.
Assured the programme would depend upon conversations,
never descending to the explicit with graphic images;
Terry and I were followed around by a camera crew for the
five months up to Christmas 2014.

The first hint of a problem came during a session when
Michael made a diplomatic and revealing comment.

‘How can I put this, Narvel? You see ... this is
supposed to be fun!’

He had detected a haze of depression which, at that
moment, was adversely affecting the quality of his work.
Michael, with a track record of acclaimed films, is a
specialist in documentaries. I felt dreadful!
Here was my big chance to tell the nation about the
reality of homosexual lives by asserting the positive
aspects of gay saunas. Effectively, alas, I was
falling down on the job.

As I gather from friends and associates, DVDs of
Secrets of the Sauna are now circulating around the
gay community. Terry and I have seen it several
times. He never wants to see it again. I’m
more philosophical. I went into this project with my
eyes wide open and can’t complain about a result which, to
say the least, is disappointing in parts where it gives
viewers a bad impression of gay bathers. On balance
my friends are more positive about the effect it will have
on my reputation. I remind them -

‘You realise this will ruin me for presenting
Housewife’s Choice!’

Back in October 2014, a number of unwelcome facts came
into sharp focus. I stopped writing to the press
about gay issues. I stopped writing - full stop.
Double Life, my current book, was on hold. It
was like ... I couldn’t write. Numerous personal
correspondences ceased. Letters remained unanswered.
I became reclusive, unwilling even to socialise with gay
friends. In general, I had lost my way -
figuratively and literally. Car trips negotiating
busy city areas became too much of a challenge.

Suddenly, after 20 years of being busy, there was time on
my hands. The void was filled with lots of long
walks through relaxing woodland. It afforded some
comfort. If mental health had become an issue, at
all costs, physical health must be maintained.

Counselling was helpful but I resisted any suggestion of
antidepressants. A lifelong aversion to recreational
drug use, alcohol and tobacco increased my determination
to emerge from this dark period via a healthy active
lifestyle coupled with a wholesome diet. After seven
one-to-one sessions, a group course focusing on cognitive
behavioural therapy was recommended. Initially I was
unenthusiastic on the grounds of not being in the same
league as potential self harmers or people who might be
prone to suicide. Eventually I was persuaded of the
advantages offered by a group dynamic situation which
would teach useful relaxation techniques. It was put
thus -

‘Group members might be interested to hear from an author
of eight books who suffered a breakdown in the midst of a
Channel 4 documentary about gay relationships.’

The therapist suggested further counselling on completion
of the group course. In November 2015, a new
counsellor, Ian, interviewed me for an assessment.
He proposed a fresh approach focusing on the harrowing
activity I experienced at age 12. After several
sessions, he ‘diagnosed’ PTSD - post-traumatic stress
disorder equating me with emotionally damaged soldiers who
have endured excruciating experiences in the field of
battle. I was surprised. Ian clarified.

‘You shouldn’t be. On a daily basis, in late 1957,
you described physical attacks such as a blow to the
abdomen (winding) rendering you temporally unable to
breathe. You spoke of a sharp kick in the leg (dead
legging) cutting you to the ground and ear screaming
resulting in a life-long loss of hearing. All this
in front of an audience, a mob of jeering bullies whipped
up by a teacher who was supposed to protect you. You
are a victim of torture, as terrible for a 12-year-old, as
for a grown man in uniform. The agonising memories,
vivid flashbacks and intrusive thoughts causing rage - are
symptoms of PTSD.’

I feared Ian would attribute my current malaise to the
sexual activity with the man I call Granddad.
Although he (like me) cannot condone adults having sex
with children, he is prepared to acknowledge the help and
comfort I received from the old coalminer who lived near
Mundy Street Boys School. As a result, this
counsellor is in broad agreement with my own assessment as
outlined in the introduction to Sea Change.

Ian quoted Carl Rogers, page 11, from his book On
Becoming a Person.

‘It is the client who knows what hurts, what directions to
go, what problems are crucial.’

So, here we are where we started! The problems are
clearly stated. Perhaps we have discovered the root
of those problems. Will ongoing conversations, in
the following weeks, with this professional therapist
extinguish the fires currently marring my life? Time
will tell.

It occurred to me that the 1957 trauma was an all male
ordeal. If so, how do we explain my life-long
tendency to misogyny, in that an acidic female comment can
inflict a sting more excruciating and longer lasting than
her male counterpart? Once again, Ian referred to
painful motherly incidents seared into her son’s memory
banks.

Occasionally he was prevented from using the school
lavatory and arrived home with soiled underpants.
Unsympathetic, she couldn’t cope. In sad resignation
shaking her head –

‘You make work for me.’

In 1945, Connie Annable at age 34 bore a son. She
already had two daughters aged 9 and 13. Narvel, the
‘gypsies warning’ was the subject of a frequently recycled
family tale involving this pedlar with her unwelcome and
inconvenient prediction. A baby was the last thing
Connie wanted. At that time Mum and Dad were busily
involved in a partnership with Philip Daniels an emergent
successful retailer taking full advantage of the economic
climate at the end of the Second World War. Cash was
plentiful but ladies outerwear, coats gowns and costumes,
were not. Connie, a born saleslady gifted with a
vibrant controlling personality was a valuable asset to
her new friend Phil. Annable family mythology spoke
of a golden period in which cascades of cash crashed onto
a working class couple who had only ever known a meagre
hand-to-mouth existence, the usual lot of coalmining
stock.

‘They spent it as fast as it came in from those crafty Jew
boys. Connie took over £100 a week selling Phil’s
stuff on Ilkeston Market,’ commented one of my several
cousins who lived in our pit village of Stanley Common.

The most visible monument to this sudden wealth was a
brand new detached house, costing just a few hundred 1939
pounds, proudly towering over the many terraced rows of
humble colliery cottages. Researching this family
narrative in 1997 for my first book Miss Calder’s
Children, put me in mind of Viv Nicholson, the 1961
Yorkshire housewife who won the equivalent of three
million 2016 pounds on the football pools. Viv and
Connie shared a rags-to-riches-to-rags again story.
In 1958, Connie and Sam Annable were back in one of those
dowdy terraced cottages - two up / two down - she was
still a saleslady in a Derby shop and Sam was happily
doing what he did before the war, driving a bus.

For simplification, here is a timeline -

1939 - Cynthill, composited from my sisters Cynthia and
Hilary, according to the latter, was built costing £500
plus £50 for the land at the pit village of Stanley
Common.

1945 - I was born in the front bedroom of Cynthill on
July12th.

1948 - Cynthill was suddenly sold. We all descend to
inferior accommodation behind a shop in Belper.

1954 - I gather that the Belper business failed.
Mum, Dad and Narvel downgrade further to live in a small
second floor flat over a tiny shop (Annabelle) in the
primitive colliery town of Heanor where, under gaslight, I
suffered four years at Mundy Street Boys School.

1956 - We move around the corner to inhabit a larger first
floor flat in Red Lion Square.

1958 - Annabelle fails. We return to a pit cottage
in Stanley Common.

Back in 1948, for some reason the grand house was sold and
the family moved to less impressive premises above 28 & 30
New Road in Belper - two shops under the name of C & S
Outerwear. C & S stood for Connie and Sam. The
business card included ‘PROP. S ANNABLE’ but another card
and letter headings - DANCO - suggested a different owner
and a business link between my mother and Philip Daniels.
Some forthcoming relatives and family friends have
advanced controversial theories contrary to the official
family line which I have always been given to understand.
Put simply, it is their belief that Philip was the real
owner of the new house and probably the owner of the
Belper property.

Late 1954 saw yet another abrupt change and downgrade of
circumstances owing to, rumoured at the time, bankruptcy.
C & S Outerwear was sold and the family moved to a
somewhat dingy flat above a small shop on the main street
of Heanor, a grimy colliery town with a rough reputation.

I assumed we owned the small shop called Annabelle selling
hats, handbags and fancy jewellery. This shop was
dwarfed by an adjacent store, three times the size.
Huge letters proclaimed that DANIELS was now open for
ladies outerwear. Over the next three years, Mum and
Dad saw a lot of Phil and Edie Daniels due to a close
friendship and the sheer proximity to their business next
door. At that time, Phil together with his palatial
home in Edwalton, had additional shops in Nottingham,
Derby, Long Eaton, Ripley and Ilkeston. He was a
rich and successful businessman.

To sum up - I’ve reached the conclusion that, before the
war, Phil met Connie, was charmed by her sales personality
and saw an opportunity to invest in several tax efficient
initiatives. He flattered her, boosted her ego by
building an eye-catching house cheaply in a local coal
mining village. The family was installed. It
said to the pit populace of Stanley Common - here is the
imposing residence of Sam and Connie Annable - their
impressive reward for sudden success, that of selling
ladies clothes on Ilkeston Market Place. Phil
anticipated and took advantage of the dramatic inflation
which engulfed post-war Britain. By 1948 he probably
quadrupled his money when he sold the house.

From 1939 to 1958, Connie and Sam were Phil’s employees
most likely paid on a basis of commission from the fruits
of their labours. Connie sold clothes and Sam drove
(as I recall) a pre-war yellow Bedford van proudly bearing
the legend ‘C & S Outerwear’. His responsibility was
to transport stock from wholesale to retail outlets.

Like his son, Sam had a powerful sexual appetite. He
indulged in several mistresses. Years later in
Detroit mother spat out the following -

‘Your Dad ruined the business!’

‘How?’

‘He squandered all the money on his fancy women.’

This corresponded with one distressing scene played out in
1957 when an enraged tearful Connie harangued Sam about
his treachery. I have never seen her so upset.
Although he hardly ever spoke to me, for balance, it
should be pointed out that my father never spoke ill of
mother. Even so, she never forgave him for
infidelity with these various (as I recall) unpleasant
fishwives who behaved to me with total indifference -
sometimes worse than indifference. They are now
certainly all dead; to name any would be inappropriate.

One clear memory - it was in a seafront boarding house in
Blackpool. I was about five-years-old. Both
parents absent - but two women had put me to bed. It
was a chore. One of them scowled back at me,
approached the bed and suddenly whipped back the
bedclothes revealing what many little boys do in bed.
I was playing with myself.

‘There you are! Just look at that! What did I
tell you? Dirty little bugger!’

An excruciating damaging cruelty, it was one of several I
came to associate with rough common females who, for some
reason, hated me. It was certainly an act of spite
inflicted by one of the fancy women.

Connie was guilty of similar humiliations degrading her
son. I’ll give just one mortifying example which
left an ugly scar on my psyche. It happened during
the worst period of my life, December 1957 when I was 12.
On a daily basis, the sadistic Mundy Street master
entertained himself by engineering lynch mob style attacks
which brought despair and thoughts of suicide. This
perfect storm of a disastrous situation could only exist
with the connivance of my indifferent father and hostile
mother. They were ashamed and loathed the son who
was not a proper son who could not defend himself with
bare knuckles in the playground and hated football.
The following sound bites spat out in pit talk were
typical.

‘What sort ‘o lad ‘ave we got! Aye [he] couldna kick
a ball.’

My Dad could hardly bring himself to speak my name.
If it was necessary to reference the despised miserable
child, he would, with clear irritation nod towards me and
say ‘im’.

It would have been a Saturday or Sunday morning. I’d
just got out of bed, not yet dressed, but for a vest which
barely covered genitalia - no underpants. Few Heanor
boys wore underpants. Hearing the kettle whistle, I
descended to the kitchen where mother mashes [brews] the
morning tea in a large brown pot. As usual, she
received me in aloof silence as would have been common in
most colliery class homes. I poured tea into a mug,
adding milk from the milk bottle and settled to a pleasant
stupor sipping the hot liquid in a few moments of
tranquillity in the relative safety of our first floor
flat.

Suddenly there were sounds of giggly girls bursting into
the property. Relatives never knocked; they simply
entered as I dived under the table for cover in an attempt
to maintain some semblance of dignity. Undercover of
tablecloth, the deception was a success as long as the boy
remained perfectly quiet. He had escaped. He
waited for mother to invite her guests into the front
living room giving him a chance to make a bolt for the
safety of his bedroom. Knowing the sensitivity of an
adolescent, most mums (even the ones who disliked their
offspring) would have spared him the agony of humiliation.
Instead, Connie Annable decided to inflict maximum
suffering on a helpless victim. She said -

‘Look under the table’.

My mind goes forward to an ugly incident in the early
1990s. One of my colleagues was given tragic news,
the sudden death of her mother. She collapsed into a
flood of tears, was inconsolable and had to leave her
teaching duties immediately. She was helped out of
the staffroom and taken home. All other teachers
were distressed, rushed over to be supportive, kind and
sympathetic. As a witness to this event, I was also
distressed – but not in the same way. I was
distressed at my own extraordinary response to this
upsetting scene. I did not feel sorry for the
poor woman; on the contrary, I resented her! Why?
Because I knew that I was ‘damaged goods’.
Notwithstanding, I was no psychoanalyst, unable to probe
the Freudian darkness, to examine the monsters that lurked
inside my own id. Was this hostile reflex connected
with a comparison? Let us assume that I received
similar bad news – my long standing partner has died.
Dare I weep? Dare I show pain, as she
did and risk admitting to a ‘degenerate’ relationship, an
unnatural closeness?

Back in Granddad’s carnal kitchen, my parents received
support from an unexpected source. After threatening
to kill myself, the old paedophile made a case for me
remaining alive and running the daily gauntlet of Mundy
Street Boys School.

He made a contrast between me and my classmate Chunky who
was a frequent visitor to the erotic harem. I was
adequately clothed, reasonably well shod and well fed in a
house which was kept clean and warm. Granddad
acknowledged that I was despised by disappointed parents,
at the same time, was also cared for by these people who
took their duties seriously.

When it came to motherhood, I’ve always acknowledged that
my mother was on ‘automatic pilot’. In this sense,
she was generous. The subject of my homosexuality
was never openly declared, in consequence there was never
a confrontation in which I might be ordered to ‘pack your
bags and get out!’ I have known several gay sons who
were summarily ejected from their home. Put to the
test, I do not believe Connie Annable would have ever
kicked me out.

Other Mundy Street boys in 1957 were in a much worse
situation than my own. Chunky and his ‘mam’ were
often beaten by his dad. He was ill-shod, ill-clad,
ill-nourished and occasionally starved which explained his
frequent appearance at Granddad’s fish and chip suppers.
I witnessed several ravenous attacks on food placed before
this impoverished child. I was moved to pity for
this classmate, a rat-like scruff who had never done me
any harm. We were both groomed in erotic arts and
were united by the expediency of buying protection with
sexual favours. He was a misshapen ragamuffin of
defective bone growth dashing around the playground.
Unlike myself, Chunky’s twisted appearance was a shield to
cruel treatment. It was bad form to target a
cripple, but Narvel was seen as fair game. I was
whole but ‘different’ and that difference inspired in the
mob a frisson of sadistic pleasure. That merciless
element was all the more ferocious when fired up by an
evil schoolmaster.

Back to 1948 - Sam, Connie, Cynthia, Hilary and Narvel
left the big house and moved to Belper where they lived
under, behind and above the two shops on New Road.
Did Phil buy the property or rent it?

The point of this history is to focus on a list of carers
who looked after the inconvenient son who disrupted the
family business in 1945. My earliest memory must
have been set in Cynthill. Baby Narvel lying
helpless on his back was comforted by tall slender trees
swaying outside a window. Years later, I recall the
side and long driveway of this beautiful home being
enhanced by Lombardy Poplars. As a toddler, I have
no further memory of the big house. All early
Stanley Common memories were of Aunty Olive and her sister
Aunty Brenda because, for the most part, I lived with
them. In Belper, 1948 to 1954, alternate weekends
were shared by these Stanley Common sisters and my
mother’s sister Aunty Ida who lived in Belper. I was
dearly loved by Aunty Ida and her husband Uncle George,
but a woman called Marjorie Harrison living next door but
one to C & S Outerwear came as near to a true mother as
was possible to achieve. Shunned by parents and
sisters, Marjorie talked to me, listened to me, played
with me, and invested time with me even to the extent of
taking me on holiday. She cared for me with
affection and compassion.
I had expensive toys. There were two
pedal cars occasionally used, but they could not compete
with cardboard boxes which cost nothing at all.
Marjory and her mother Mrs Kirkland spent hours
enthralling me with painted cartons which became a
miniature village of homes for porcelain penguins, all
with individual names. These articulate and
imaginative kind neighbours gave me the most precious gift
any lonely child can receive, they gave me time.
They chatted, and I had their full attention. That
house was full of love.

When Marjorie was not available, a Belper teenager called
Sandra was (I suspect) paid to take me on long walks,
eating up several hours, along the environs and woodlands
of Belper. From her attitude, I deduced she found
her duties something of a chore.

My Heanor carer was Mrs Booth, affectionately known as
‘Mrs’, who lived in the flat below. Her extended
family of several sisters also helped out.

Therefore, these kind women would seem to contradict the
theory of misogyny. Ian pointed out that damaging
trauma originated from females in or close to the family
core - principally my mother and sisters. He dug out
several excruciating incidents as outlined above.

We move on. Re-established in our colliery village
of Stanley Common, 1959 saw me a frustrated, deeply
repressed 14-year-old scruffy chicken. We had a shy
and gentle postmaster called Jack Carrier. One day
he was there - the next day he was gone!

‘What’s happened to him?’ I asked mother.

‘That one! Huh! Good riddance,’ she snapped.
‘E were one of them funny sorts. No good to any
woman,’ she growled.

The effect on me? Well, it was the same as the
effect on hundreds of thousands like me. I hid
inside of myself. I became withdrawn and tried to
pretend to desire girls. I drifted into a secret
world of fear and insecurity.

Clearly Jack had been discovered in some way, denounced
and driven out of Stanley Common by ignorant homophobic
outrage. In those dark days of rabid gay hate, it
was considered quite natural for a heterosexual to ‘chat
up’ a woman. However, if a homosexual engaged
another man in conversation, that was seen as
‘soliciting for an immoral purpose’. Many victims
were entrapped by the CID in plainclothes and humiliated
in the local press. Did this happen to Jack?

The Carriers had been postmasters in Stanley Common since
1924 and John H Carrier was born in 1920. He could
still be alive! I’ve asked relatives, only to be met
with a wall of silence. Somebody in Stanley
Common must know what happened to the inoffensive,
mild mannered Jack Carrier who suddenly disappeared 57
years ago.

Having descended from riches to rags and now back in their
terraced rented pit cottage, Connie and Sam decided to
emigrate to Detroit and be near their daughter Hilary who
had been in the USA since January 1954. I was sent
ahead in November 1963 and docked the day before President
Kennedy’s assassination. It was some months before
my parents arrived in 1964 to find relations between their
son and daughter completely broken down as graphically
revealed in Scruffy Chicken. Hilary hated me
from birth so lifelong estrangement should be no surprise
to anybody. I’m inclined to accept she is no
homophobe, but homosexuality was a useful stick to thrash
my reputation.

I was informed Cynthia died in 2002. A fragile
reconciliation took place during the last seven years of
her life after she phoned me regarding the death of my
mother in 1995. My father died in 1972. After
American custom, he was on view in open coffin for a few
days prior to the funeral. I wandered over to look
at him. A stranger did the same and shook his head.
We made eye contact.

‘Sure makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Sure does,’ I replied.

‘Friend of the family?’

‘He’s my dad,’ I explained.

At this the stranger seemed shocked trying to make sense
of baffling information. He opened his mouth to
speak - thought better of it - and then immediately closed
his mouth. Cleary embarrassed, he tried to ease the
tension.

‘Cynthia never told me she had a brother!’

Having been the ‘elephant in the room’ for so many years,
it might be assumed that Narvel had a strategy for dealing
with this type of mortification. I had not.
You never get used to pain. And, at 27, I was still
young. I was painfully self conscious, ill at ease,
ashamed and humiliated. I did what I’ve often done
to preserve my dignity. I walked away from an
impossible situation.

The above best explains why some comments can be deeply
wounding. Sixteen years ago an ignorant common woman
read a sanitized account of my Mundy Street agonies.
In Sea Change she could read the un-expurgated
version. She criticised the newspaper article as
being ‘mardy’ and self-pitying. She said it came
over as ‘poor Narvel’. It felt like a kick in
the teeth. I politely disagreed, walked away and
have barely spoken to her since. More recently
another woman told me to abandon my campaigning and hoped
I would write a normal book - effectively a counsel
of despair and deeply offensive. I politely
disagreed and walked away. I’ll be interested to
hear the counsel of Ian the counsellor.

The death of father left me alone with mother in our
suburban Detroit home. It fell to an unmarried son
to care for and administer the affairs of his newly
widowed mother. If I had not seen the significance
of the relationship between my parents and Phil Daniels,
further dramatic clues would now present themselves.

It was a shock to discover that Connie Annable was unable
to write a cheque. She had never written a
cheque! On the other hand, she could still sell and
was a saleslady at Winkelman’s, a Detroit chain of fashion
stores for women. As ever, Connie was always
employed, loved to work and loved to spend. She had
a Winkelman’s credit card loaded to its maximum of $500
and costing monthly interest at a horrendously high rate.
I did the sensible thing - I paid it off. Mother was
a shopaholic constantly buying things she didn’t need.
She had always denounced dad as stingy - ‘He’d skin a flea
for its fur!’ During his lifetime, I had as little
respect for Sam as he had for the son he despised, but in
death ... well, I was beginning to appreciate his problem
with mother. One month later, the credit card was
again over $500. I paid it one more time and
thereafter ignored it as the only way to stop Connie
spending.

Sometime in this period, I was arrested on a charge of
gross indecency in a public toilet. Within the
Detroit gay community, the 14th Floor of
Hudson’s Department Store was a well known meeting place.
Occasionally handsome young officers in plain clothes were
dispatched to the men’s rest rooms to tempt ‘degenerates’
into committing an ‘immoral’ act. Alas, on this
particular ill fated afternoon, I yielded to the promise
of instant ecstasy. Very foolish because I’d heard
of this type of entrapment. Agents provocateurs,
were undercover agents of the Detroit Police. They
could safely get good results from wholesale easy
ensnarement of homosexuals with a gentle disposition.
This is the City of Detroit - the same high-crime-rate
Motor City famously averaging ‘three murders a day’ in the
1970s. It held an appalling reputation for violence,
gangsters, Mafia, muggings and general hooliganism.
It even had its own ‘Pink Mafia’ sub-group as I’d already
discovered. Read Secret Summer.

Like so many before and after, in shock after disclosure
of a police badge, mouth dry as dust; my world suddenly
collapsed. I came quietly. They all did.
Before being escorted into a cell with hardened criminals,
I was allowed one phone call. Tragically, the only
number available was the number of the last person I
wanted to call. Five hours later, Hilary and
brother-in-law bailed me out with the standard $100.
I was released and escorted to the main desk in the foyer.
The relatives, utterly disgusted, had come - and gone.

The prisoner stood alone before a towering Police Desk
Sergeant. Behind his elevated fortress, the
officer’s head was ten feet above my head. The
former inmate was seen as half-living slime which had
dared to creep out of the gutter. That high
countenance twisted into an expression of execration such
that I flinched from the assault of its sheer malice.
Three words were uttered. And those words were
invested with all the bitterness and venom available to
the man who spat them out –

‘Call your sister.’

Reeling from the impact of such tongue lashing, frozen to
the spot for several seconds, the detainee realised there
would be no formal dismissal and, in fact, he was free to
go.

Homosexuality had always been a useful stick with which to
strike me. The next day I paid her the $100 and
offered to be candid and admit the folly of my conduct at
Hudson’s. True to form she took full advantage of my
distress and misery to denounce weakness, a useless life,
sordid behaviour and deviant personality which had
disgraced the family name. For a woman who had been
the principal source of lifelong character assassination,
that arrest and concomitant humiliation was to Hilary, a
gift from heaven.

I graduated from university in 1975 and obtained a post
teaching Black History in a private catholic school.
At long last, I had a chance to save money and hopefully
return to Derbyshire realising a long held ambition.
In all 13 years of residence in America, chronically
homesick, I managed to visit the UK for as long as funds
would stretch - usually about six weeks each summer
holiday.

Connie was given plenty of warning that she would be on
her own in the autumn of 1976. Daily life was lived
in a haze of siege mentality. When her daughters,
nieces and nephews visited the house, the ‘elephant in the
room’ withdrew into an extension which had been built in
the 1960s. In this sense, I was truly invisible and
glad to be so.

Alone with mother, following the years after her husband’s
passing, a few words were occasionally exchanged prompted
by a natural need for companionship. Connie found
Narvel’s existence tolerable enough to meet this need.
There was no affection. Now in her mid 60s, she was
mellowing, coming to terms with a young man who, at least,
kept his homosexuality well hidden and attended to general
household needs. I had replaced Sam with a level of
reasonable satisfaction - no praise, but no complaints.

As the date of my departure approached, it was necessary
for me to discuss practical matters - necessary finances,
household bills, the car etc. Mum could not drive.
Most of the time, I chauffeured her to and from work;
other times the daughters helped out. These
arrangements were problematic because I was on speaking
terms with mum only. I made it perfectly clear that
the family would need to take on the responsibility of an
elderly lady needing close supervision in my sudden and
permanent absence - fast approaching. I was going
for good. Connie needed to fully understand the
implications and how it would affect her life. In
all conscience, I don’t think she fully gathered how she
would need to depend upon Cynthia and Hilary, nephews and
nieces. I braced myself for a grudging family
conclave to discuss the ramifications of this new
situation and insisted to mother that she must warn
the family and call for this meeting.

Unfortunately, Connie Annable is inert. She does
nothing. She waits for others to organize her, to do
for her - as Sam Annable and Phil Daniels did.
During one stressful confrontation she snapped -

‘Why don’t you take me with you and look after me?

This sounded like a line which had been deliberately fed
to her. It was unexpected and called for a careful
rethink. My initial reaction was to stick to Plan A
and rid myself of the family for good. That said,
the possible advantages of Plan B began to take shape.
It occurred to me that a family conclave had, in fact,
taken place in my absence with the demon daughters
seeing a golden chance to offload motherly
responsibilities. Connie always presented herself as
very popular, ever needed, ever wanted by her doting
children and grandchildren. Up to this moment, I was
taken in by self-promoting ongoing propaganda and began to
see Connie in a different light.

Accordingly, in July 1976 the house was sold. Mother
and son set sail on the QE2, both hoping for a new
beginning and an improving relationship. For a
while, it did seem that way. Cautiously I bought a
small terraced cottage in Belper so Mum could be near old
friends and relatives in Stanley Common. The
purchase left sufficient funds for Connie to return to the
US if the plan failed.

In the autumn of 1976 I met my future long term partner
Terry Durand who was married with children. The
trauma and shock of coming to terms with his life-long
repressed same sex attraction triggered a breakdown and
several weeks in a psychiatric hospital. Electric
shock aversion therapy was suggested as a ‘cure’ for his
homosexuality. This low point was followed by a
painful and slow journey to eventual contentment and
happiness. On September 3rd 2016, we’ll
be celebrating our 40 years together.

Established in our new home, away from the malevolent
influence of American relatives and certain poisonous
family friends, the chemistry between Narvel and Connie
had improved. Make no mistake, homosexuality and
Mundy Street still cast a dark shadow over our frail
relationship, but we were reconciled to a routine of
civility and mutual cooperation. We didn’t like each
other, but open hatred increasingly took a back seat.

Whilst I was living with mother, Terry became homeless
following his divorce. Our tiny two up / two down
cottage was hardly big enough for mother and son,
notwithstanding, I asked her if Terry might come and live
with us. Without hesitation, she readily agreed.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. In that way, she
was always generous. And then something
extraordinary happened. The addition of Terry made a
dramatic change to the relationship dynamic.
Heretofore, there had been little joy in the mother / son
equation; now the house received a boost of warmth
transforming it into a home. Connie liked Terry and
Terry liked Connie. She was able to accept my
partner as a ‘best friend’. That was OK. He
was Narvel’s mucker, his mate, his pal. The world
would see it that way. All would be well.
Terry was also practical; he could make things and mend
things. As an electrical contractor, he had a
‘proper job’. He could mend a puncture. He could
lay bricks. He was as butch as a brick. He was
a ‘proper lad’. Sam Annable would have been proud.

Terry lived with us for the best part of a relatively
happy but chaotic and troubled year. We were support
for each other. The love was real. With
limited access to his boys aged 6 and 9, we saw them
infrequently at Connie’s cottage. One memory is
poignant. I was looking out of the front bedroom
window when my partner arrived with his sons.
Traffic roared both ways with intensity making me anxious
for their safety. Having difficulty crossing the
busy A6 Derby Road, Terry took firm hold of their little
hands until a suitable gap appeared making it safe to
approach our front door. Something about that man
holding on to his precious boys wrenched my conscience.
It was symbolic of a man desperately holding his loved
ones together against an overwhelming tempest of
circumstances which had been tearing that unit asunder.
I was that tempest. I was destroying that family -
but I couldn’t abandon Terry. As he made perfectly
clear in Secrets of the Sauna - he needed me.

Mum spent quite a lot of time with her pit village
relatives until her brother Uncle Arthur died, closely
followed by Aunty Brenda and their son Ken. These
losses were a blow to mother. I’d like to think that
Connie felt the loss of her own son when I obtained a
teaching post in Worksop causing me to buy a bungalow near
the school. Terry and I visited her at weekends but
she had become increasingly isolated from all she had
known in the USA.

A combination of family deaths, isolation, advancing years
and a yearning for the flashy materialistic lifestyle of
American living led Connie to entertain a return to her
daughters. I was asked to sell the small house and
she returned to Detroit in 1981. She visited
Derbyshire a few times before her death in 1995.

In conclusion, commendation should go to the three
counsellors who have guided me through a dark period which
descended upon me in October 2014. With permission,
I mentioned only Ian who encouraged a journal which
started in September 2015. He always referred to me
as a ‘client’ rather than a ‘patient’ - thus removing the
shame, the social unacceptability often associated with
mental illness.

Brooding hateful thoughts only sap my energy and continue
to damage. It does no harm to those who have hurt me
years ago. Endlessly playing back these mental tapes
is a futile attempt to alter the outcome of what cannot be
altered. I’m trying to change history. I’m not
religious, but understand the psychological value of
forgiveness - letting go. I can’t forgive or forget,
but I will try to avoid. By this means, I
will try to put back the lid [scab] on my historic horrors
- the lid which was lifted in writing Sea Change.
Discussing these difficult matters with an understanding
and caring professional has been very helpful.

Also to be praised is a nonjudgmental approach to all the
embarrassing aspects when we explored the secret and dark
corners of my memories. Counsellors had no problem
with my homosexuality even when conversations explored
erotic anonymity and orgiastic realities, common to many
who share same sex attraction. Repeated reassurances
have given me enhanced confidence because I suffered a
complete collapse of confidence in October 2014.
Trust is so important in professional counselling.

Crucial to my recovery has been Ian’s foresight and kind
permission to keep a journal which has matured into this
document. It should help take the sting out of the
stigma surrounding mental illness. This record of
our conversations has evolved into an interesting and
revealing family history. Given that mental health
issues are now in vogue, having ‘come out of the closet’
Breakdown 2014 should be well received when posted
on Facebook + twitter - and in my website

On the last session in January 2016, Ian and I concluded
that there isn’t much wrong with me, beyond gathering [and
practicing] the strength of will to control anger.
When I give pain permission to intrude into my conscious
mind, I allow historic trauma to disturb my peace.
I’ve always said my problem is not so much depression, it
is more like fury. Accordingly, having thoroughly
discussed these issues, we agreed to wind up the therapy.

Narvel Annable

Sea Change and Deathon theDerwent 2nd Edition are now available in both Paperback and Kindle

Click on the picture above to see Narvel
reading an extract from his book 'Secret Summer' at
Bradford Pride, 2009. Introduced by Paul Hunt, a leading
light of the Bradford LGBT scene.

Hello Readers,

A friend sent me the following -Steven
was DifferentandJake
was a Wanted Man.
Beautiful poems, Terry and I were moved and impressed with
Bob’s skill and sensitivity. The parallels between
me and Steven were striking.

Steven was Differentresonates
with my own life experience but doubt if any of my
immediate family would embark on a [last line] ‘healing
process’. Most are dead – I never shed a tear.

It must be said, in the material sense, Narvel was always
well cared for. However, in December 1957, I
discerned the beginnings of character assassination
originating from disappointed parents and two older
sisters. AsSea
Changewill
show - bad press, disinformation, lies and a merciless
machinery of denigration was spreading like osmosis, like
a virus remorselessly through family channels infecting
ignorant family friends with a strong predisposition to
rabid homophobia. It was an uncompromising mindset
towards the most negative view of an unsatisfactory son.
They trashed my life.

Steven was
different

Steven was
different

And his family
didn’t like it

They said he
wasn’t man enough

But he couldn’t
do anything about it.

“I am what I
am”

He tried to say

But they didn’t
understand

About being
gay.

They made him
feel unwanted

He had to get
away

He decided to
pack his bags

And leave the
next day.

He made his way
to another town

Where he met
someone like him

They struck up
a friendship

Down at the
gym.

They found a
place to live

Where the
neighbours didn’t mind

Instead of
being critical

They were
accepting and kind.

Steven thought
of his parents

Set in their
ways

Would they
continue to reject him

Always?

Steven made a
name for himself

As a writer of
fiction

His experience
inspired him

He wrote with
conviction.

One day his
father saw his book

On a library
shelf

He began to
read and started

To recognise
himself.

He didn’t know
the story

Was written by
his son

But it made him
think a lot

A healing
process had begun.

Jake was a Wanted
Man

Jake was a
wanted man.

He was on the
run.

Most people
hated him.

Life was no
fun.

He lived rough.

One day when he
was out

looking for
firewood

He heard a
shout.

A boy had
fallen in the river.

He could see
him going down.

He wasn't
allowed near children

But he couldn't
let him drown.

He dived in and
pulled him out.

People were
coming to the scene.

So Jake ran
away

Not wanting to
be seen.

He watched from
a distance.

He felt good
inside.

He had done
some good at last.

But he still
had to hide.

Then people
came towards him.

He knew he
couldn’t stay.

He ran and
slipped...into the river...

He was swept
away.

Jake’s body was
never found.

A forever
hiding place he had.

The boy and his
family never forgot him.

He wasn't all
bad.

Roger and Narvel at the LGBT Celebration
Evening in the Ballroom at Nottingham Council House

Narvel Annable would like to thank Roger Hollier for his
skill, time and trouble invested in producing this
imaginative and interesting display of letters and
memorabilia.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover

I enjoy readingIlkeston
Life.
It often taps into nostalgic memories of autumn 1960 when,
at the age of 15, I attended a Pre-Apprentice course at
the ultra modern Ilkeston College of Further Education on
Field Lane. The very concept of ‘Further Education’
was new.

Such a memory came into sharp focus on Page 12 in the
October 2013 edition ofIlkeston
Life.
A reference toLady
Chatterley’s Loverimmediately
flagged up Wednesday, November 16thwhen,
at lunch time, I paid my 3/6 to buy one of the 200,000
copies printed after a 30 year ban of that controversial
book. It was famously vilified by out-of-touch
prosecutor, Mr Mervyn Griffith-Jones who said –

‘Is this a book you would wish your wife or servant to
read?’

In our humble tiny terraced cottage opposite Stanley
Common Miner’s Welfare, the nearest we had to a servant
was Aunty Brenda. She came to ‘muck us out’ once a
week and would certainly have been disgusted by the
‘goings on’ between Lord Chatterley’s roughly-spoken
gamekeeper and Her lascivious Ladyship.

As a testosterone charged, deeply closeted 15-year-old
guilt-ridden homosexual, I was entranced with the page
everybody was talking about. It was a conversation between
gamekeeper and gamekeeper’s fully-inflated manhood – John
Thomas - straining at the bit for access to Lady Jane’s
womanhood.

‘Arrr,
John Thomas! Rock ‘ard, an lookin’ up at me! A
know what thee wants –c***! That’s
what thee wants! C***!
C***!
An that’s what thee’s goin’ to get.’

Boasting possession of the infamous book, I memorised this
lewd exchange between man and manhood. In the role
of randy gamekeeper, using the voice and mannerisms of
Long John Silver, Narvel entertained his fellow students
at the Ilkeston College in the style of his Heanor Howitt
impressions earlier in the year.

With relish and access to the caretaker's yard brush for a
crutch, I mimicked Tony Hancock, impersonating Robert
Newton's interpretation of Robert Louis Stevenson's
colourful character - Long John Silver, from his 1881 book
-Treasure Island.

"Aarr, Jim lad!"and
the occasional"Avast
there!"

This nautical romp consisted of hopping around the
playground with a limp neck and imaginary squawking parrot
on ye shoulder screeching'Pieces
of Eight!’
It took off, and soon there were several 'Silvers'
capering around Howitt Secondary Modern School
playground.

Alas, it didn’t take off in Ilkeston in quite the same
way, but some sexy boys were suitably intrigued by that
erotic presentation.

I hear you asking, how could I possibly know all this
happened on Wednesday, November 16th? The
memory is clearly fixed because November 16th1960
is also the day Gilbert Harding died at the age of 53.
Who? Fifty-three years ago, this irascible
broadcaster, always on our TV sets, dubbed ‘the rudest man
in Britain’ was FAMOUS. He wassofamous;
his name did not appear under his likeness at Madam
Tussauds. It simply said, ‘The most famous man in
Britain’.

Only a few people knew Mr Harding was gay. I never
met him, but - as you will learn if you ever readSea
Change-
in 1958 at the tender age of twelve, having been abducted
into a secret circle of paedophiles, I was one of the few
– who knew.

Mingling with 'rough trade', I heard talk about a gay
criminal, 'a swinger' with an appalling reputation for
seediness, shotguns and torture. Ronnie Kray took
'what he wanted'. He selected boys with 'long lashes
with a melting look around the eyes'. They were
plied with drink, shown off at the Society Club in Jermyn
Street and sometimes taken to Kray's luxury flat in
Walthamstow where show business celebrity friends were
entertained.

Rough-and-ready Cockney lads boasted of their connections,
their sexual experience within the mobster underworld and
certain high profile figures of the Establishment.
One extremely desirable thug claimed intimate carnal
knowledge of Gilbert Harding and Lord Boothby.

Needless to say, I resisted boasting these big names to
the Pre-Apprentice Ilkeston boys – and for that matter,
the Editor ofIlkeston
Life.

Narvel Annable

Prayers for Bobby

A friend sent mePrayers
for Bobby.It’s
about a mother played by Sigourney Weaver coming to terms
with the suicide of her gay son.

Religious iconography dominated the opening credits and
increased forebodings. I said to Terry –

‘I’m not sure about this. Perhaps we should stop it
now and watchAlien.’

I’d rather be with Sigourney Weaver as Ellen Ripley and be
thrilled by an indestructible creature stalking and
killing the crew of the Nostromo. That murderous
monster was pure fiction, as opposed to the unbearable
reality of Sigourney Weaver playing a devout gay hating
mother – a more distressing monster slowly crucifying her
homosexual son. For me it was too close to home.
My sleep is fragile. Homophobic monsters from the id
are emotionally disruptive.

The film had survived just a few minutes when, abruptly,
we watched something else. I could see where it was
going. A revered grandmother said‘all
queers should be lined up and shot’.
The cosy Christian family setting was more frightening
than dripping silent emptiness of a gigantic vessel in
deep space. American accents made a familiar
back-drop for misery and torment endured in 1960s and
1970s Detroit. I don’t need to see it. I know
all about it. I couldn’t even cope with the first
five minutes. On another occasion, Terry might watch
it. I can’t. I write it, but can’t watch it.
It happened withMauriceand
I walked out ofBentafter
just 20 minutes. I managed to stay the course withMilkandBrokeback
Mountain–
but neither were exactly edifying.

I’m glad Sigourney Weaver lent her celebrity status to
this movie. I’m glad it was made and, based on
real-life Bobby Griffith who killed himself in 1983, was
widely acclaimed winning awards sending a powerful message
which needs to be heard. There have been too many
self hating / self destructing Bobbys brainwashed by
ignorant religious mothers.

The
sun struggled up over the horizon, blocked by trees
casting long dark shadows over a landscape of sparkling
white. Presently they came on a weird circle of jet black
sculptures erupting from ice. Almost immediately, Simeon
deciphered these strange shapes as the remains of an
ancient tree in the last stages of decay. And what a tree!
Its diameter must have been in excess of two or three
prostrate men end to end, and a girth of a dozen children,
arms outstretched, hand to hand. He looked up to gauge the
probable height of this once living entity when Mab’s
smile caught his eye.

‘Wow! Think of all the
creatures which must have lived in that massive tree.’

‘Generations of them,’ she
breathed in awed whisper. ‘A living entity; a verdant
myriad of limbs forming the leafy world of an ancient
yew.’

‘Older than the Old Manor
House?’

‘Much older. This venerable yew
was reputed to be 2000 years old 200 years ago when it
housed a family of charcoal burners.’

Mab
spent the next ten minutes explaining how the aged and
hollowed gigantic tree trunk accommodated Luke and Betty
Kenny. Their eight children where somehow sheltered in
turf-roofed sheds wedged into the vast system of branches,
main branches and sub branches of that colossal tree. The
author admitted an element of legend to this extraordinary
history, the subject of her current book.

‘Charcoal! But what good is
burnt wood?’

‘I draw with it. And a
blacksmith needs a fire of intense heat in his forge … and
it’s necessary to make gunpowder.’

Mab
was more interested in the social history associated with
this improbable Kenny domicile. Had Simeon heard of the
nursery rhyme Rock-a-bye Baby? Yes - and he recited –

Rock-a-bye babyIn the tree topWhen the wind blowsThe cradle will rockWhen the bough breaksThe cradle will fallAnd down will come
babyCradle and all

She
said these lyrics were composed, as it were, on the hoof,
by Betty softly crooning to her baby reposing in a cradle
fashioned from a hollowed-out branch. Presumably, ‘cradle
and all’ was suspended by ropes attached to one of the yew
tree boughs.

‘And what about that poor
child? Did it fall?’ asked a horrified Simeon.

‘Some things we can never know
for sure,’ smiled Mab.

Central Television and BBC Radio

Hello Readers,

The Central TV News
item is available. Simply click on to the link below.

Last
October 2012, Terry and I were pleased to become Friends
of the Grand Pavilion and take an interest in the regular
emails sent to us by Gregor Macgregor.

I’m
grateful to Trina for time and trouble invested in
visiting Tnd myself on the Monday morning of March 11th.
She told me it was a preliminary interview in advance of a
more formal recording for the Oral History part of the
Grand Pavilion Project. An hour with Trina was quite an
experience! An entertaining whirlwind of enthusiasm and
energy, she must be a powerful asset for the Grand
Pavilion Project.

To slay the dragon of prejudice
and discrimination, I was delighted the project wanted to
hear from people like me and my partner of 37 years, Terry
Durand. Most of us meet gay people every day – but don’t
know it. LGBTs can make themselves invisible! Being open
about our sexuality is the best way to cut through decades
of fear and mythology. To be closeted and secretive,
simply hands ammunition to the hostile.

Terry and I
spent our ‘honeymoon’ in our favourite resort of Matlock
Bath at the Temple Hotel in the first week of September
1976. In the following week, after the stress of coming to
terms with his sexuality, Terry suffered a breakdown, was
removed to a psychiatric hospital [Mickleover] and offered
Electric Aversion Therapy to ‘cure’ him of his
homosexuality.

Homophobia is unacceptable. I hope
the Oral History will address this particular ignorance
and turn it around in a positive way to promote that
positivity. In this way, people who hear our voice might
be educated on an issue which, especially in rural
England, only a few years ago, was considered taboo.

Around Matlock Bath and The Grand Pavilion there is a
whole untold secret history – now told in two novels
Scruffy Chicken and Secret Summer - copies of which I have
donated to The Grand Pavilion together with several sheets
of cuttings for background information. Extracts from the
Matlock Mercury and Derby Telegraph highlight my long-term
connection with Matlock Bath. former friend, Matlock man
and popular drag act Herbert Siddons [1924-2003] was
famous for his Old Mother Riley impersonations at the
Matlock Lido in the 1950s and 1960s. The Matlock Mercury
feature Popular Drag Artiste Remembered was printed on
March 16th 2006. It explains how Herbert inspired the
character of Becksitch Betty inScruffy Chicken. An odd
effeminate man, he had a strangely mobile writhing mouth:
it seemed to move all over his face, possibly the result
of a broken jaw.

I have a faint memory of Herbert
reminiscing about his appearances at the Matlock Picture
Palace and the Matlock Bath Grand Pavilion. He also
performed as Carmen Miranda and Gracie Fields.

The
principal character of Secret Summer, a gorgeous
butch-as-a-brick hunk I call Ahmed, detested all
effeminate men and especially Matlock Bath! During his
first visit to the UK in 1967, at his expense, we
travelled around in an impressive flashy Ford Zodiac
staying at top hotels. He loved London and was keen to
visit the Derbyshire his ‘Booby’ [pet name for Narvel] had
always raved about. I thought Matlock Bath was the most
beautiful place in the world. My lover had hardly ventured
out of hideous-flat-tar-and-cement Detroit. Therefore, I
was so sure - once he had explored the mossy nooks and
crannies of this idyllic Derbyshire Shangri-La – Ahmed
would never want to leave it. To my horror, he wanted to
leave it, as soon as he set eyes on it!

As a
contrast to the posh hotels, I booked us into a quaint
friendly B&B called The Laurels at the foot of Holmes Road
where it meets Brunswood Road. It was a favourite.

The Christmas before, I infuriated one of Derby’s
snooty set by leaving the party with a fellow teenager, a
stunning stud with golden hair. Our host, Claud Hoadley,
as I call him in Scruffy Chicken, the First Homosexual of
Derbyshire, ranted about this ‘unacceptable elopement’ in
which two chickens, perfect strangers, presented
themselves at the door of The Laurels asking for
accommodation under heavy snow fall in the bleak
midwinter. The kind lady showed us a double bed – no
questions asked. An excellent breakfast complete with a
pretty yuletide view over the magnificent panorama of High
Tor was just as romantic.

Six months later,
Detroit met Derbyshire – it was hate at first sight. In
sulky silence Ahmed and his Booby strolled along North and
South Parade. Nothing pleased the American; nothing
charmed him. Deeply in love, I’d dreamed of the day when
we’d steal a kiss on Lovers Walk - but he refused even to
cross the River Derwent via Jubilee Bridge. He found the
whole thing primitive (I think he said ‘medieval’) nasty,
common, parochial and horribly cheap. The disaster came to
an abrupt end after a miserable night on a lumpy bed in
The Laurels. He would not eat breakfast and even declined
a cup of tea practically throwing two pound notes at the
bemused lady – ten shillings more than she needed. We were
back in London before noon. I was utterly miserable - but
we refused to give up - desperately trying to bridge the
unbridgeable, attempting to make our fragile relationship
work against a backdrop of hostile homophobia.

Narvel & Terry on their Honeymoon
at Matlock Bath in 1976

Taboo within a Taboo

A woman asked me questions about my new
book Sea Change. I informed her it was a sequel to
Lost
Lad in which, back in 2003, I had withheld certain
significant details. The principal character, Guzzly
Granddad, appeared in previous titles where Simeon Hogg
(my character) was in his late teens. Acquainted with the
old obesity with a taste for teenage boys, she expressed
abhorrence at such ‘disgusting behaviour’.

Granddad was not popular with readers. This was a typical
reaction. However, she exploded with outrage when told I
was procured by a school bully and initiated into the old
man’s secret circle of urchins at the tender age of 12.
His Dickensian kitchen was conveniently near Mundy Street
Boys School in 1957. Eyes blazing, mouth spitting fire -

‘I’d take a knife to that lump of lard and castrate
him! I’d do it myself. I would. I would. I mean it. I mean
it.’

Shocked by this barbaric hatred, I tried to
explain the aim of this novel – don’t cut off goolies –
cut off the supply of boys. Sea Change will not condone
men who incite boys into sexual activity. Readers are
asked to take a step back and consider the big picture.
The aim of this book is to slay mythology surrounding
paedophilia. The second aim is to explore the folklore of
Derbyshire through the eyes of an isolated runaway fleeing
an intolerable situation.

Make no mistake – men
having sex with children is always wrong – full stop.
Notwithstanding, there is much hysteria and nonsense
regarding paedophilia. It is said boys fondled by adults
are permanently damaged. We are told they grow up unable
to enjoy relationships.

I am living proof this is
not the case.

However – I am damaged.

In
the culture of cruelty at Mundy Street Boys School in
Heanor, you were graded by your ability to inflict
humiliation, pain and suffering on others. As the
following extract from Sea Change will show, in such a
brutal regime, my status was rock bottom.

‘Piggy
was too frightened to use the school toilet. Mortifying
incidents had made Mundy Street lavatory a no-go area for
a boy who grew up to be a badly constipated man. Word went
around the playground – ‘hog’s on t’ bog’. A crowd
gathered to enjoy the sport. Alarmingly, several times,
unknown assailants kicked the door causing panic! Violent
kicks - loud bangs - terrifying bangs! Within that small
cubicle, distressing percussion reverberated with no
escape. A quick bolt would result in certain capture by a
crazed mob thirsty for blood. Objects were thrown over the
top. Taunting abuse through the gap below complemented a
monstrous act of torture.’

On several occasions I
arrived home with soiled underpants. My mother,
unsympathetic, could not cope. In sad resignation, she
slowly shook her head. I can hear her now –

‘You
make work for me.’

I planned an act of
self-destruction, yet words like ‘immoral’ and ‘abhorrent’
are used to describe the man who warned against such an
act. He saved my life. It is subjective. In that old
coalminer’s primitive kitchen, after initial coercion, I
became a willing party to erotic play organized by an
adult. At Mundy Street Boys School, effectively, I was a
sex slave with no choice. A miserable child was pressed
into service pleasuring powerful pupils.

The more
culpable villain is the sadistic schoolmaster. He
choreographed classroom situations in which I suffered
excruciating humiliations. They wreaked emotional damage
which will follow me to the grave. To this day, I endure
vivid flashbacks, intrusive thoughts causing distress
which still disturbs my sleep. If not tattooed on my body,
the traumas inflicted by that ruthless Church of England
regime are burnt into my psyche. Cruelty has a cost.
Approaching my 70s, I am now paying the bill.

Hardly to be recommended - yet it was not the gentle
touches of an old man who drove me to wish for death. It
was the relentless emotional brutality which will for ever
be associated with a pious, scripture-obsessed ayatollah
of a headmaster. He presided over a bleak midwinter of
daily torment where the greatest sin was to ‘tell tales’.
Result – I bottled up my stress for more than half a
century until the emotional problems became deeply
ingrained.

Remove that academy of atrocities, and
you would have removed the steady supply of frightened
children to the nearby scullery of a child molester. Sea
Change invites you to examine the big picture. Don’t
string up my old Granddad who was kind; sack the
headmaster and his monstrous teacher who was so skilfully
grooming the barbarous school thugs. That is the
‘grooming’ to be concerned about. Here in the 21st century
- children kill themselves to escape bullying.

In
December 1957, I had nowhere to go. My unfeeling parents
took the view that I deserved unhappiness, pain and all
the opprobrium I had brought down on my own head due to my
own perverse nature. I wouldn’t fight. Male Annables were
fighters giving a good account of themselves with bare
knuckles in the school playground. I dishonoured the
family. I was the boy who didn’t like football. In
working-class, coal-mining Heanor, this was unheard of!
Unacceptable – sissy - mardy - queer!

I couldn’t
spell, do sums and sank to the bottom of the class in most
other subjects. That might have been forgiven had I
displayed any practicable ability – of which there was
none. Rough Heanor lads were supposed to make things. I
made nothing. Tortured children tend to do badly in
school.

This despised lover of boys, this
mysterious Heanorian of no name who hid his face in the
shadows; he was the onlyperson to show compassion and
offer practical help during that dire period of late 1957.
Hearing of my plan to commit suicide, he was horrified.

Nay, lad! Ya moant do that. Life’s precious. A dead
boy can do nought. A live boy can do something. Why don’t
you run away?’

Kind words spoken by a man reviled
and detested by the majority’. Thinking about the grubby
harem which dominated my little world 56 years back, I
recall the equally detested Good Samaritan who was the
only passer-by to aid a man who had been beaten and
robbed.

In the book, I explore a possible link
between carnal activities in Granddad’s kitchen and the
sexual atmosphere which pervaded the classroom and
playground of that nearby homoerotic school. I was never
quite sure which other boys had knowledge of the secret
sect. The older boys were more than usually infused with
titillating interest often masked by high spirits, mock
combat and frisky fun. In rough packs, I often saw the
style and method of that rude old man who was there in
spirit – if not in the flesh.

One of the most
feared toughs was a frequent visitor to Granddad’s
gatherings. I suspect he was instructed to ‘go easy’ on me
and use his network of terror to subdue the mob. This
would explain the relatively painless January of 1958.

I fully understand the arguments against sexual
exploitation. There are real dangers arising from an
imbalance of power and control between a child and a man.
Those same dangers exist between any child and any
guardian irrespective of carnal desire. For example, the
perverted schoolmaster with his non-sexual vicious streak
was the very person who was supposed to protect me!
Without mercy, he was the sadist who inspired in the
rabble a frisson of sadistic pleasure.

We must get
away from appalling hysteria characterised by ignorant
mediaeval-minded people calling for sudden surgery on a
man who – however undesirable - became my friend and
saviour.

This friend gave me a ‘road map’ to a
future which did not include cruel bullies, a monstrous
schoolmaster and frosty parents who did not want me
anyway. Before Christmas 1957, I had something new. I had
hope and, for the first time, had tasted happiness in a
clandestine community where, for the most part, I was
valued and treated well.

In the humble terraced
home of Guzzly Granddad, I never considered myself a
victim of sexual abuse. At the Boys School I was certainly
a victim of cruel conduct, abuse from a heartless master
who should never have been allowed near children. Whilst
taking care not to portray this Dickensian kitchen as an
ideal environment for young boys, my book does challenge
language which supports and reinforces common prejudices.

Over the last 37 years, I have enjoyed a loving
relationship with a man, Terry Durand, now my Civil
Partner. However distasteful to some readers, I held a
genuine affection for ‘my Granddad’. At the same time, I
was able to concede the reality of that old man’s erotic
predation. I was not fooled, but, in my opinion, I was
more used than abused.

My child-like love and
loyalty was freely given as a vulnerable, rejected child
rescued from desperation, very nearly an act of
self-destruction. Initial barriers of revulsion from the
touch of an ugly, ancient pile of flesh had been overcome
by a network of camaraderie and fellowship from other
boys, some of them feral, in the child-sex secret cell. As
with previous titles, all names in Sea Change (even
nick-names) have been changed. Like previous titles, it is
autobiographic, a blend of fact and fiction – essentially
telling a true story.

Lost Lad mentioned nothing
of this covert club. Why? In deciding to expose this grim
chapter of my life, this bleak mid-winter of 1957; I
needed to examine reasons for a half century of silence.
In many ways it was much to do with a familiar journey
made by many who share same-sex attraction.

I hid
in a dark well locked closet in fear of being exposed,
embarrassed and humiliated. Born into a macho, football
crazy, working class, coal mining culture; homophobia was
not just endemic, it was almost a badge of honour with
some people. A thief, thug or murderer would be afforded
more respect than a gentle, honest homosexual. After
suffering painful incidents, I learned to exist in
isolation and stay deeply hidden inside myself.

In
the dying years of the 20th century and early years of the
21st century, gay progress in the form of a better press
and slow decline in homophobia made it possible to be a
little more open about the reasons for being a bachelor.
Little-by-little, constantly testing the water, I was
always ready to make a quick retreat.

It was one
thing to be homosexual, another thing to tell people about
it – and worse, much worse, to write about it! In the same
way, it could be said - it was one thing admitting sexual
contact with boys my own age - another thing to reveal
sexual activity with a man old enough to be my
grandfather. Such an admission would attract a higher
level of embarrassment and disapproval.

As with
the heterosexual majority, the gay community tended to
disdain carnal relationships with old men, especially
those who were seen as a ‘danger to boys’.

These
were the reasons for the long silence. In addition there
were reasons for breaking that silence. For the record, I
wanted to place the responsibility for prepubescent misery
and near death firmly at the door of Mundy Street Boys
School with its entrenched callousness. I wanted to
challenge unreasoned panic associated with the taboo
subject of paedophilia. The activities of Guzzly Granddad
represented a taboo within a taboo. He and his friends
were an underclass of boy hunters leading a furtive
existence subsumed underneath the already clandestine
underclass of mainstream homosexuals.

Across three
titles biographically exploring my personal encounters in
the 1960s, three groups of homosexuals are identified. On
top - the professional men, the sneering snobs of stately
demeanour affecting upper-class accents enforcing a safe
social distance from the lower group.

The lower
orders included bizarre types inhabiting a sleazy
underworld of public lavatories such as Toby Jug, Nobby
the Gnome, Mr Toad and the Belper Goblin. Yet this
assortment of crude characters were united in a carnal
desire to taste the flesh of young men who were certainly
men – well into their teens and well past the stage of
adolescence.

The third group, such as Guzzly
Granddad and his ‘bum chums’, was a minority occupying a
highly secretive, covert invisible space below more
conventional members of the gay community. For
perspective, it should not be forgotten that before 1967,
at any age, all homosexuality was illegal in the UK.
Transgressors risked more than a jail sentence. Violent
inmates with a homophobic disposition inflicted their own
unspeakable punishments on men whose only crime was to
share same-sex attraction.

The paedophile circle
into which I entered was enjoyable and supportive.
Accordingly, as in previous novels the autobiographic text
will include erotic episodes. It will be honest, frank and
graphic - but will not stray into the sordid or prurient.

It has been suggested to me that Granddad and his
pals might not have been so gentle and understanding.
Pederasts are like everybody else. They come in categories
of good, bad and all gradations in between. For me,
fortunately it was good. It could easily have been
otherwise. And I am disinclined to condemn people who
delivered me safely back to the world of the living.

Arthur C Clarke made an important point about the link
between child sex and emotional damage. I kept my mouth
shut and was spared the fuss made by irate parents who
discover their boy has been, as is often put, ‘touched up’
by a man. In my case, no questions were asked because Mr
and Mrs Annable did not want answers from a son who was
unsatisfactory in the first place. At least in that, I did
not suffer further abuse and more psychological
devastation fromrespectable heterosexuals who would have
put my friends in prison and smugly nod satisfaction when
they were beaten to a pulp by queer-bashing inmates.

If you seek enlightenment, read my book - but don’t
expect me to name names. In a hidden world of extreme
secrecy, in the thick smog laden days of December 1957;
everybody had nicknames. Guzzly Granddad was a survivor.
To the best of my knowledge, he died in his bed.

Belper Arts Festival

On May 18th
2013, I was invited to the Belper Arts Festival – Meet the
Author - event of book signing and sales in the Main Hall
at the Strutts Centre, Derby Road in Belper.

It was
another opportunity to chat with visitors and other
authors about their work, my own work including
campaigning for gay rights.

Introduction to Sea Change A new novel
from Narvel

A Mystery set
in Derbyshire 1958

Here is a controversial
story of transformation: a journey from despair to
delight. Adolescence is the change from boy to man. In a
sequel to Lost Lad, Simeon Hogg escapes from a living hell
into an enchanted world of fairytale people inhabiting the
hidden nooks and crannies of deepest Derbyshire. Follow
him as he transforms from a rough and miserable urchin who
- ‘suffers a sea-change into something rich and strange’ –
as sung by Ariel, the airy spirit from The Tempest.

In previous titles, Narvel Annable has disclosed a
promiscuous life style. He includes confidential erotic
and embarrassing details which many gay boys and men of
the 1950s have taken to their graves. In this brutally
honest autobiographic novel, he goes further. He revisits
his Dickensian Mundy Street Boys School ordeal of sex
slavery and cruel bullying in Heanor. He reveals more
youthful adventures set in the shadowy world of
homosexuality. With the help of legislation and
enlightened education, the gay community of the 21st
century hopes these horrors, which have damaged so many,
have gone forever.

This novel explodes myths and
challenges conventional thinking. Whilst not condoning, it
does not condemn. At the brink of self destruction,
Simeon’s sexual abuser becomes his saviour, persuading
him, giving him courage to escape and live – rather than
to stay and die.

Inspired by a cycling holiday,
this is a moving portrayal of a young gay man on the run
and ostracised in the 1960s.

Bullied as a child
and an adult, Narvel Annable has endured the agony of
being treated as an outsider simply because he is gay. He
was a guest speaker at an International Day Against
Homophobia event in Bradford in 2009 and was nominated for
an Equity Partnership award last year. Narvel describes
writing his novel as a cathartic experience helping him to
deal with painful memories.

Partly set in
Bradford, the townscape and terrain of the metropolis is
described as –

‘A splendid panorama of pinnacles
and finials. Most notable was the distinctive Italianate
clock tower of the City Hall and the ornate Venetian
Gothic parapets and pinnacles of the Wool Exchange. They
reminded Simeon [Narvel’s alter ego] of an ancient
fairytale castle.’

Simeon also discovers Bradford
Cathedral and is delighted by its tranquil, peaceful
‘secret garden’.

At its heart, Secret Summer is a
touching story of young love, laced with a well-paced
thriller involving a missing person and a gay criminal
underworld. It is also a love letter to Narvel’s native
Derbyshire with beautifully written passages devoted to
its natural landscape.

Emma Clayton

Review from the Sheffield Star printed on
March 14th 2011

Next time you’re browsing a
book shop looking for a gay thriller based in Derbyshire,
you could do worse that think of Narvel Annable.

The former Worksop Valley Comprehensive teacher’s third
novel in his ‘pink whodunit’ trilogy will be released in
the UK this month by The Nazca Plains Corporation in Las
Vegas.

Depicting a flourishing gay scene in
Matlock caves and a homosexual Mafia, Secret Summer
follows on from Narvel’s previous efforts Lost Lad and
Scruffy Chicken.

Colin Drury

Review from the Harrogate Advertiser printed on May
6th 2011

This dramatic story crosses the
Atlantic. It follows Annable’s own experiences, eventually
bringing his lead character, Simeon, to Harrogate. He
meets Big Bill Bulman, an obese American based on Bill
Silvey, whom Annable met in 1966.

Bill was living
at the Old Swan Hotel and was a regular visitor to the
Royal Baths. Annable describes him as a colourful
character who enthused about the town in a roaring Deep
South accent and thinks many other people who were in the
area at the time will probably remember him.

Vicky Carr]

The Official UK
Launch of Secret Summer

A Mystery set in Detroit
and Derbyshire 1966

This event will take place at
Waterstone’s Booksellers, Ltd - St Peters Street in Derby
on Saturday, March 26th.

Author Narvel Annable will
be available to sign copies and discuss his work from 12
to 2.00pm. Secret Summer published by The Nazca Plains
Corporation in Las Vegas has been available in the USA
since last September.

Narvel
Annable has been invited as the guest speaker at
Nottingham’s Breakout social group for gay and bisexual
men.

On Tuesday, May 17th, he will entertain by
reading edited extracts from his new book Secret Summer.
This will give the audience an opportunity to ask
questions, exchange views and comment on a variety of LGBT
issues.

Existing and new members are always given
a warm welcome to Breakout. It is situated at the Broad
Street Centre on Broad Street, next door to the Health
Shop, just down from the Broadway Cinema. The doors open
at 7,30pm and the events begin at 8.00pm concluding at
10.00pm. Weekly meetings are free. Refreshments are
available. 0115 9 34 84 85

As
part of Gay History Month 2011, Sonya Robotham of Derbys
Rainbow Fringe Festival has invited Narvel Annable to read
selected extracts from Secret Summer at Derby Central
Library. In keeping with Sonya’s usual generosity, this
will be another free event with free refreshments starting
at 6.30 and concluding at 8.00pm on Friday, February 4th.
It will give the audience an opportunity to ask questions,
exchange views, make comment and spark discussion on a
variety of LGBT issues.